


A Good Son

by M_LadyinWaiting (Tanis)



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Athos Angst, Bent History, Brotherly Bonding, Emotional Backfill, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, Gen, Hurt Aramis, Hurt Athos, Hurt Porthos, Hurt d'Artagnan, Hurt/Comfort, Male Bonding, Original Character(s), d'Artagnan Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-22 11:29:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 39,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3727135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanis/pseuds/M_LadyinWaiting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>d'Artagnan, completely on his own for the first time in his life, finds fate has tossed him an opportunity he's been longing for, though as is often the case, the price of the newly opened door is costly - his father's life.  What further payment will capricious fate require if he finds the courage to follow his dream?   </p>
<p>Warnings for TV POV, slightly Bent History, and yet another 'd'Artagnan is taken in by the Musketeers' story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The OC, Urbain Grandier, who appears later in this story was a real-life 17th century priest involved in an ongoing feud with Cardinal Richelieu. If you wish to know his true story, you can google him - but I'll warn you it's not pretty. I've borrowed him for my own purpose here, and bent his historical data slightly out of shape as there is no record that he was ever in Paris. His eventual historical fate, just in case you do google him, is only alluded to in this story.

_A Good Son_

The countryside was slipping away, as was the daylight, and still Athos rode ahead into the teeth of the wind, ever at the front, as alone as he could be with three companions trailing behind.  It was only a matter of time before Aramis took up the cudgel of guilt again, not that it would do any good.  Guilt and Athos were old friends, they rode and fenced and exercised and guarded the king and his entourage together every day.  In fact, guilt and Athos were inseparable. 

Not that he had the least intention of allowing guilt of any kind to bother his conscience in regards to the ill-mannered, hot-headed fourth riding with the Inseparables.  He had no idea why the youth  who had tried to kill him, then – according to his friends – helped them resolve the accusations against him, was along in the first place.  It did not require a fourth to pick up the package they were to escort from Calais back to Paris.  It did not require _three_ of them, but Tréville had wanted them all out of Paris, at least until Richelieu stopped seething about the gross miscarriage of justice that had literally been Athos’ last minute reprieve. 

The musketeer could not decide if he was relieved or annoyed that he yet lived; nor had two days on horseback reliving the experience done anything to resolve the quandary. 

The horse behind him was urged into a trot and, as expected, Aramis drew alongside. 

 “We need to find a place to stay tonight,” the healer said pleasantly, so the wind would carry back none of his seething annoyance.  “We passed an agreeable looking inn not a league back.”

“There’s an hour yet of daylight.”

Aramis had had enough.  “Find a place to stop, or I will.  We don’t have to be in Calais for another two days.” 

The hat did not turn, nor did the pace falter.  “If he rides with us, at the least I want to know I will not be constantly distracted having to save him from his own reckless folly.” 

Aramis was regretting having shared the details of the altercation at Gaudet’s camp where they’d discovered absolute proof of the treachery perpetrated in Athos’ name.  “That is a spurious argument.”  And one that had been on-going since their brief stop at sun high to rest the horses and eat.  “A moot one, too, if he dies of lung fever because you drove us like cattle before your ill temper.” 

“ We have a job to do, Aramis, if d’Artagnan cannot keep up, then he needs to tell us and we will find somewhere to leave him and get on with it.”

“What do you _want_ from him?”

“I want nothing from him.” Nor anything to do with the youth.  “I do not even know why he is yet with us.  Does he not have dearly departed to bury?  Mourning to undertake?” d’Artagnan reminded him too much of his younger brother, dead at the hand of the whore. 

“He is avoiding the finality of that job,” Aramis said.  “Athos, to a point, I understand your argument, but have you considered he doesn’t even know to _ask_ for aid?”

For the first time, the hat turned, and the stoic face measured Aramis’ words with consideration.  “No,” Athos said simply.  “I have not.”  The hat turned forwards again, as if dismissing the subject.

“Then consider it now.  What he knows of us could fit into Monsieur Bonacieux’s thimble – if he uses one.  Furthermore, he does not want to appear needy to us, or be an encumbrance.”

“Monsieur Bonaxieux is a cloth merchant, not a seamstress.  And yet the boy _is_ an encumbrance if he slows us down.”

“We’re not in a hurry,” Aramis snapped.  Then in a more placatory tone a moment later, “Can you not see he has the makings of an excellent musketeer?”

“You would recommend him as a musketeer on the basis that he can stay in the saddle on pride alone?” It was not quite a sneer, for Athos did not sneer, but it was certainly as close as he ever came. 

“Have you seen the bruise he carries?”

“Apropos of what?” Athos was in no mood to hear any of this.  He could, he knew, cut off the flow with a single command, but he would not.  He had not risen through the ranks to become Tréville’s second-in-command by flinging orders around, nor the leader of the Inseparable’s by shutting down Aramis’ sometimes challenging ability to wield words.  Especially when he was championing a cause, and apparently sometime over the last four days, the youth from Gascony had become a cause. 

“Did you know he was hurt already when he challenged you?  Oh wait, that’s right.”  Aramis was not above a little irony either.  “While he was racing around the countryside with us, attempting to find proof you’re not a murderer and a thief, _you_ were languishing in prison.  You could not have seen the bruise that blackens his side from armpit to hip.  And he held his own against you.  Admit it - he made you sweat a little.”

“That is irrelevant.  We have an assignment, he chose to join us; he’s welcome to complete it with us or go home.  I do not care which.” Which was a flat out lie, since Athos would be quite pleased if the youth disappeared for good. 

“The two of you are much alike, you know, he is as stubborn as you,” Aramis growled.  “If we do not find another place to stop soon, I’m going back to the inn we passed.”  He reined his horse to the side of the road and drew to a halt, waiting for d’Artagnan, and Porthos behind him, to catch up.

Over the course of the afternoon, d’Artagnan, who rode like centaur, had been slouching lower and lower in the saddle.  Aramis suspected he was favoring that left side, though he could not be sure huddled as the youth was, inside the voluminous cloak he wore.  They knew as little about the Gascon as he knew about them, but it seemed apparent to Aramis that d’Artagnan had appropriated his dead father’s cloak.  It was sized to a man broader of shoulder and of more girth than their slender companion.  

“Why are we stopping?” d’Artagnan drew alongside Aramis, who clicked his mount into motion again, so they rode side by side.  “Oh.  We’re not.”

“We will be shortly.  If we don’t find a place to stay soon, we’ll turn back to that last inn we passed.”

Porthos drew alongside on the left.  “Stinkin’ weather to be ridin’ all day, if ya ask me,” he contributed as the wind caught his cloak and tried to rip it from around his neck.  “I’m ready to be off m’horse.” He trapped the flying blue wool and shoved it back under a leg with a scowl. 

“Am I imagining things, or are the two of you conspiring?” d’Artagnan glanced first to Aramis, then Porthos.

“An observant pup,” Porthos said approvingly. 

“Then you have been arguing about me.”

Aramis squared his shoulders.  “Who said we were arguing?”

d’Artagnan lifted an eyebrow. 

_Observant indeed_ , Aramis thought.  “Alright, yes, we have been _discussing_ you.  Athos,” he sighed, “wants you to ask for help.  _I_ want you to know that help is available.  My mother was an herbalist, and I learned much of the healing arts in my time at the abbey, before choosing the life of a soldier instead of a priest.”

“Priest?” d’Artagnan echoed, completely ignoring the intimation that he might not be as fit as he wished to appear.  “You trained to be a priest?”

“Hasn’t lost the way of it either,” Porthos proffered.  “A bundle of contradictions is our Aramis; a sharp-shootin’ cleric who shoots first and asks questions after he’s physicked his victim.”

“For most of my adolescence I was schooled to shepherd a flock,” Aramis replied, insouciance shading to boredom informing his tone.  Despite the humor lacing this disclosure, one hand brushed over the cross d’Artagnan knew the musketeer wore beneath his shirt. 

“But you miss it?” d’Artagnan cocked his head curiously.  “Really?”

“I do, sometimes.  There is a complacency in routine and ritual that can be comforting.”

Porthos snorted.  “And boring.  He didn’ so much leave as get himself excommunicated.”

“I was not excommunicated.”  Aramis was very much on his dignity, though laughter lurked in his eyes.  “Father Jerome might have suggested that I was more suited to a different calling; when he caught me setting up bottles on the headstones for target practice.”

The youth’s eyes widened in disbelief.  “You did not.”

 “That ain’t even what got ‘im kicked out.”  Porthos chuckled.

“Oh, it is true.” 

“You were target shooting in the graveyard and you’re alive to tell of it?  My father would have skinned me alive if I’d done such a thing.”  The smile dropped away before it was fully born as memory overshadowed the _joie de vivre_ of the moment. 

Aramis gifted the momentary silence with respect, allowing d’Artagnan to draw a deep calming breath before glancing across at Porthos.  “Shall I tell him?”

“If you don’ I will.” 

“Alright, I’ll bite – how _did_ you get kicked out?”  The youthful voice was subdued but curious. 

“Shooting apples off the head of the other novices.  If Robin Hood could do it...”

d’Artagnan literally turned in the saddle, though his hand clamped instinctively to his side as he did.  “You’re not serious!”

Aramis shrugged modestly.  “I only missed once.”

And d’Artagnan, unable to help himself, bit again.  “Only once?”

“I hit the tree over Fremon’s head the first time I tried.  They did not catch us at it until I had perfected my aim and could do it over my shoulder, without looking, though I did not try that with a real person until I knew I could hit the target a hundred percent of the time.  When Father Jerome roused from his faint, he escorted me home and told my father that no matter what my mother said, I did not have a calling for the church.”

Porthos threw back his head and laughed heartily, despite having heard the story more times than he could count.  It never failed to amuse.  "He learnt me how to do it too!"

"Yes, but _he_ can only do it when he's drunk.  And I was _not_ excommunicated.  I am even allowed over the threshold of the village church when I am home.”

d'Artagnan didn't bother to respond to the drunk remark, they had to be pulling his leg on that one.  So he asked instead, “Where is home?”

“Brittany.  But enough of me.  How is it a farm boy from Gascony fell under the spell of the sword?”

d’Artagnan’s shrug, Aramis noted, was a thing precisely calculated and silence enveloped them again, as much as the wind and the sound of trotting hooves would allow. 

“I don’t remember a time I did not want to touch the beautiful thing my father kept on the mantel over the fireplace,” the Gascon said finally.  The fingers trying to curb the ache in his side moved to curl around the inlaid swirls and curlicues of the basket handle on the sword beneath his cloak.  “My father said it belonged to my grandfather, though he was gone before I was born.  I remember lean times when my parents would speak of selling it and I would beg them not to.” 

And now his father was dead, too, because _he_ had insisted on stopping short of the safety and anonymity of Paris, though that was a secret that might well go to the grave with d’Artagnan, as there was no one left to confess to.

“I suppose I wore him down eventually.  An uncle who had been in the army lived nearby.  My father prevailed upon him to teach me the rudiments of sword craft …” he trailed off, the memories surging like a moon tide, followed by a long, slow swell of yearning for home despite the fact that less than a fortnight ago he had longed to leave it with equal fervor.  The ache of it rivaled the ache in his side. 

“So you learned sword fighting from an uncle.  You were on your way to Paris when you were attacked, but you never said why?”

Aaramis’ quiet catechism drew d’Artagnan back from the edge.  He shook his head.  “Father wished to…” the curl of grief caught him again like a lance to the chest from some knight of old.  He pushed it away and adjusted his internal amour.  “He wished to petition the king in person.  The taxes in Gascony are so high it becomes difficult to keep food on the table.”

“Then you did not come with the purpose of joining the musketeers?” Porthos inquired in surprise.

d’Artagnan’s laugh was hollow and rattled around in his chest with a sound like beads from a broken rosary.  “We are not of the nobility, merely gentry farmers with a little land.  I was told the musketeers are chosen from among the young men of the aristocracy.”  He was too young to realize the yearning in his soul had found an outlet in his wistful tone.  “My father used to tell me I was a farmer with grandiose dreams.”

“You are young and entitled to dreams,” Aramis declared adamantly, “if we do not dream, what legacy will we leave for those who follow?”

“A philosopher?” d’Artagnan shuddered, though it was not entirely feigned.  A cold chill was creeping up his spine.

“No.”  The handsome musketeer lifted his hat, holding it to his heart as he bowed across his horse’s neck.  “Not a philosopher, but there is poetry in my soul that must occasionally find its way out.”

“Beware his company when he gets in one'a them moods,” Porthos advised, “unless you like listenin’ to paeans of praise to an eyelash or the curve of an ear.  Look, Athos is turning off.  He must have found a place to stay.” 

Aramis glanced up, but kept his horse at a walk. “If you do not wish to be a musketeer, who awaits your return in Gascony?”

 Athos had slowed his horse to walk as well when Aramis had fallen back to ride with d'Artagnan and Porthos, though now he was disappearing into the grove of trees lining the right side of the road at a trot. 

No matter, they would catch up eventually.   Aramis returned his attention to the silent Gascon. 

d’Artagnan, who had accompanied his father to Paris with the sole purpose of wearing him down enough to be allowed to at least interview for a place with the musketeers, was silent.  He did not dare give voice to the longing.  To express those wishes under the circumstances seemed somehow irreverent, if not downright blasphemous, and in the end, he said only, “There is no one to return to in Gascony.” 

“No one?  No sweetheart?  No mother, sister, brother? What about the uncle?”

“I am …. _was_ … an only child.  My mother died so long ago I hardly remember her.  The uncle was her brother.  He died in a hunting accident sixteen months ago.”  And with his demise, d’Artagnan’s sparring days had ended.  The center post in the barn bore infinite scars from his solitary practice.

“Not even friends?”  Porthos sounded affronted at the very thought. 

This was met with a rueful smile.  “We are, normally, a legion of tillers of the earth in Gascony.  To be otherwise is to invite ridicule and harassment.  Few beyond my father understood my yearnings.    I must go back to bury him, but I will not stay.  Perhaps I will sell the farm and travel to the Colonies.”

“If you wish to be a musketeer then you must return to Paris.  The garrison is not at capacity, there are ways a resourceful youngster could earn a place among us.  And only one of us,” Aramis’ encompassing gesture indicated their inseparable trio, “is of noble birth.” 

“I wouldn’t mention it though, he’s very touchy about it,” Porthos put in, glancing ahead again.

“Why?”

“Dunno, he’s never said.  Closest thing we can figure is it must have som’in to do with the woman he keeps tryin’ to drink himself to death over.  An all he says about _her_ is that she’s dead.  Tied together somehow.”  Porthos shook his head.   “An enigma that one.”

“He doesn’t react well when you dig, so don’t.”

“Right,” d’Artagnan agreed without missing a beat.  “Don’t dig.  Not that he’s ever likely to get near enough to me to even try.”

“Don’t take it personal-like, he’s that way with everybody, even us a lot of the time.”

“Porthos is right, it has nothing to do with you personally, and even less to do with your inimitable style of introducing yourself at the point of a sword.  He does not hold that against you.”

“And you know this how?”

“Because he is the most fair-minded individual I have ever known.”

“I think ‘m hurt.” Though Porthos’ grin belied the grumble.      

“Well,” Aramis laughed again, “after Porthos that is, whose fairness extends to beating the pulp out of anyone who calls him out for cheating at cards.  Which he does all the time, by the way; never play him unless you’re planning to cheat yourself.”

“It’s true,” Porthos admitted cheerfully.  “It’s ‘ow I put food on the table growin’ up.  Hav’nt been able to kick the habit.  Athos keeps kicking my ass for it – well, he gives me that look he’s so good at, up from under the brim of his hat, the disappointed one that always makes me feel about a foot tall.” The big man laughed too.  “Never does any good though. Always up to m’ old tricks soon as his back is turned.”

“Yes, always fair and open-minded, that’s our Porthos,” Aramis repeated genially. 

The track they turned onto, just past a carved sign post indicating an inn, was wide enough for a cart to pass and deeply rutted.  They rode single file again and the conversation, of necessity, ended, though Aramis and Porthos continued to call good-natured insults to each other over d’Artagnan’s head.

d’Artagnan had rarely been around anyone this close to his own age.  He had never experienced anything like the easy, affectionate nature of the camaraderie between this pair.  He’d seen clearly, the night before, the older, undesignated leader of the group was included in it too, though with an elegant subtlety that defied clarification.  Despite the fact Athos had made it patently clear he did not want company in his drinking, Porthos had readily remained behind to ensure safe passage home. 

d’Artagnan understood his loss amplified the churning sensation of envy, of being on the outside looking in, but understanding did not dull the knife blade’s edge slicing tiny burning cuts just under the skin of desire.  Experience had taught him to be wary of casual offers such as Aramis had thrown out; they were easily made but rarely followed through on.

And while he was young, he was well enough acquainted with himself to know that he was in no state to make choices of any kind.  Like a wounded animal, he would be easy to bait and trap.  He envied this pair though, the easy surety in the manner they carried themselves, their obvious satisfaction with their lot in life.  He was a farm boy from Gascony with a good grasp of sword fighting.  He could plow a straight furrow if required, but his father had recognized early, the land did not call to his son as it did to him. 

Though it called to d’Artagnan, now, with the voice of his dead father.  He should go home and mourn as a good son would.  And stop pretending childish dreams might yet come true. 

“You planning to sleep up there tonight?”

d’Artagnan blinked down at Porthos, standing at his knee, holding his horse’s head. 

Porthos raised both eyebrows questioningly. 

“Oh.  Sorry.”  Saddle leather creaked as d’Artagnan drew his right leg up over his mount and slid down rather than put his weight on the stirrup to swing down.  The ground, though, jarred as much the stirrup would have and for a moment he swayed.

Big hands closed around his shoulders, holding him upright.  “Easy there,” Porthos said steadyingly. 

d’Artagan exhaled and slumped sideways against his horse.

“You alright?” Porthos asked, not letting go.

“Yeah, okay, just …” The Gascon took several shallow breaths before straightening. 

Porthos let go, but kept his hands out just in case.  “Aramis’ll have something to put on that to ease the stitch in your side.” 

“It’s just a bruise.”

“Mmm hmmm.”  Porthos took d’Artagnan’s reins.  “I’ll see to the horse for ya,” he said, taking Aramis’ reins as well. 

“I do,” Aramis agreed, “I have a horse liniment that does wonders for human aches and pains too.”  He didn’t ask, just turned the youth toward the inn with a friendly arm around his shoulders and began again with the questions, so d’Artagnan had no time to think or react. 

“Ya want I should take yours too,” Porthos asked Athos, over the back of d’Artagnan’s horse. 

“No.  Give me one of those, I’ll help with them.” Athos collected Aramis’ horse and followed Porthos around the back. 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

  

In the warm barn, they rubbed down and fed all four horses, working silently in tandem, Porthos pitching down hay while Athos curried. 

Porthos, finished, thrust the pitchfork in the hay and sat himself down on the edge of the hayloft above the stall where Athos was working on d’Artagnan’s horse.  “I know you got a lot to think about, being two seconds from dead an all, but you need to keep in mind that kid saved your life.”  He plucked up a piece of hay and stuck it in his mouth. 

“So Aramis has said as well.”  Athos stopped currying, leaned an arm across the back of the black stallion and lifted his head, though all Porthos saw was his hat brim. 

“Took us back to the inn where his father was killed.  You’d a been dead long afore we found anything to clear your name if he’d refused to ‘elp us.  Point is, Athos--”  Porthos paused.  And got his wish. 

The hat brim was adjusted so Athos was looking directly up at him.  “The point is?” Athos motioned for continuance with the gauntleted hand still holding the curry brush.  His other hand was petting the horse in long soothing strokes.

Porthos wrapped his big hands around the edge of the loft and somersaulted lightly into the spacious box stall. 

d’Artagnan’s horse whickered and sidestepped, jostling Athos, who just shoved back. 

“Point is,” Porthos said, grabbing another curry brush and starting down the opposite side of the horse.  “Your name was the last thing he'll ever 'ear from his father.  He thought you’d killed him in cold blood, but even after the humiliation of gettin’ the crap beat outta him by the three of us, even after he saw you get arrested for murder and hauled off to face the king’s justice, he was still willin’ to listen.  He don’t know who you are from Adam, he didn’t do it because he wanted to clear your name.  He did it because he wanted justice, not revenge.  I ain’t a deep thinker like you n' Aramis, but this don’t take any deep thinkin’.  I say we take him under our collective wing.”  Porthos straightened and looked directly at Athos, who still stood with his arm over the back of the horse.  “Yeah, he’s gonna take some lookin’ after for awhile, but like you, 'n the long run, he’s gonna be worth the investment.”  He went back to currying, bending to comb the fetlocks.

“I think,” Athos said after a long moment of warm, rustling silence, for a horse barn was never really silent, “I have just been put firmly in my place.”

“That wasn’t my intention,” Porthos responded without rising.  When he wanted, his diction could be as genteel as either of his brother’s-in-arms.  “I get that you’re a bit rattled by this whole experience.  To be honest, I’d be more worried about you if you weren’t. d’Artagnan is young and inexperienced, but the raw material is good.”  He unfolded again and rested his elbows on the broad back so they were both leaning on the horse.  “You could turn him into something great.”

Athos took an instinctive, almost compulsive, step backwards, fetching up hard against the boards of the stall, something foreign in his eyes Porthos could not place.  “No,” he said breathlessly, and repeated almost instantly and very empathetically, “No.”  He pitched the curry brush in the empty bucket at his feet, snatched it up, and left the stall in a swirl of blue cape without another word.

Porthos watched the stiff, retreating back speculatively.  “Well now.”  He soothed the agitated horse with long sweeping strokes down its glossy neck.  “Been awhile since our boy pokered up like that.  A long while.”  Not since Aramis had casually asked the _comte_ about life before the Musketeers.  That book was still closed, the book binder it appeared, having carelessly glued the covers together.

In the inn, Aramis had bespoken a room, garnered the location of the tap room, as well as the hour dinner was served, and hustled d’Artagnan upstairs to a comfortable corner suite, with two large beds and a small sitting area, along with a drop-leaf table that could be set up to dine _en suite_ if desired. 

Best of all, the proprietor had taken one look at their pauldrons and informed them the king's legendary Musketeers were not only welcome anytime,  room and board would be on the house.  It was rare to find such luxurious quarters in the middle of nowhere, but Aramis did not intend to look this particular gift horse in the mouth as it suited their needs quite well. 

He shoved the table against the wall, tossed his bag on a nearby chair and pointed d’Artagnan to another.  “Sit.” 

d’Artagnan, a bit dazed, was divested - in very short order - of gauntlets, cloak, and sword belt, then before he realized it, jacket and shirt, exposing the somewhat dirty swathe of bandaging Madame Bonacieux had tied around his middle.  All without his consent, though he could not determine if it was against his will. 

“Holy Mother of God!”  Aramis, balanced on his heels beside the youth, touched the dark purple center of the bruise lightly.  “You did not acquire this fighting either Athos or Gaudet.”  He was careful to keep his probing touch as gentle as possible, though determining the extent of the injury beneath the bruising was difficult without causing further discomfort.  “Was there a fight before you shot the man whose body we dug up?”

d’Artagnan closed his eyes.  “A short one.”

“Help me out here.”  Aramis’ fingers ghosted over a particularly tender spot, which acted upon the youth like a spring.  “What happened?”  Or perhaps an insidious form of torture. 

The Gascon came up off the chair gasping.  “Sword.  I fell on my sword.”

“The grip?”  Aramis caught him by the hand and carefully pulled him back down.

“Yes.”

“From your horse?”

“No.”  d’Artagnan shook his head, instantly regretting it. 

Aramis kept his voice quiet, but the tone turned implacable.  “What happened?”

d’Artagnan did not immediately answer.  When he did, finally, his voice was a little bit defiant and quite a lot unsure.  “There was a woman.”

 “A woman.” Aramis borrowed Athos' flat intonation, so it was neither question nor comment, merely a prompt when it appeared the youth was not going to elaborate.

“She …” d’Artagnan cast his gaze to the floor, avoiding Aramis’ eyes.  “She left me a gift upon her departure.  Which caused my own rather … precipitous leave taking.  Through a window.”  He sighed.  “A second story window.”

Aramis blinked.  “I don’t mean to pry,” he hedged, “but what could she possibly have left that would make you want to jump out a second story window?”

The gaze shifted up from the floor, exposing a great deal of vulnerability and a crumb of trust.  “A bloody dagger.”

At a loss, Aramis shook his head slightly.  “There are … some people who … like it a bit rough.  Did she …" he waited a moment, watching the dark brows draw together questioningly.  "Did she stab you?”

“No,” the youthful voice was filled with disgust.  “No,” d’Artagnan reiterated, shuddering.  So much had happened in those first two days in Paris, the inn incident had been relegated to the back of his mind.  Only now did it occur to him he could very well be a wanted man.  He started up again in a panic.   “The innkeeper has my name and direction.  That old crone’s probably laid evidence against me!  I can’t go back to Paris, it's likely they're looking for me by now.”   

“Who?”  Aramis’ fingers braceleted the slender wrist.  “Who is looking for you?”

d’Artagnan shoved his free hand distractedly though his hair.  “I don’t know.  The Watch?  Whatever passes for the law in Paris.  She asked for my name and I told her d'Artagnan, son of the late Alexandre d'Artagnan of Gascony.  Then she told me she didn’t need my life story!  My God, what have I done! The old besom’s probably got a mind like a steel trap.  I can’t go back! And I can’t go home!”

This brought Aramis surging to his feet.  "Relax."  He let go of the wrist he’d trapped and caught the youth by the shoulders.  “We _are_ the law in Paris, d’Artagnan.  No one’s looking for you; Tréville would have had your name and description if the law was looking for you.  But I think you better tell me exactly what happened.  Sit,” he instructed again, applying just enough pressure to cause the not-quite-steady knees to give way. 

Aramis crossed the room to snatch a blanket off the bed, returning to wrap it around the bare shoulders.  He dropped back to his heels, putting the ends of the blanket into d’Artagnan’s hands.  The youngster was beginning to tremble as though with the ague.  “Let’s start with something simple.  Who was the woman?”

“I don’t know.”  The fever flush already tinting the high cheekbones intensified.  “We didn’t exactly exchange names.” 

“All right," Aramis was careful to keep his tone non-judgmental.  "Where did you meet her?  What did she look like?”

“At the inn, they came in while I was _not_ eating badger intestines.  Dark haired, well-dressed, attractive.”  d’Artagan paused, and not for effect.  He blushed again.  “Older.”

“She came in with someone?”

“A man, also well-dressed.  Big.  Full of himself.  Ordering everyone around as if he owned the place.  Heavy accent.  He took offense when the lady ordered a bath and I informed her bath water was extra, then, out of courtesy, added that use of the communal towel was free.”  d’Artagnan looked up again.  “He thought he could spit me on his ridiculous dress sword, until he found himself looking down the barrel of my pistol.”

Aramis rubbed at his forehead with the back of his hand, not liking where this was going.  “And?” 

“We agreed to meet in the courtyard at 8:00 the next morning, they went upstairs and I went and found something to actually eat around the corner.  I was headed back up to my room sometime later and the lady passed me on the stairs.”  d’Artagnan cleared his throat uncomfortably.  He'd rather be pistol-whipped than admit he'd been foolish enough to let her purloin his gun.  “Let’s just say one thing led to another … and another … and maybe another,” he mumbled, “I don’t exactly remember … everything.  And then I woke to someone screaming and my bloody dagger  jammed into the pillow.”

“Were you drugged?”

“No, I don’t think … so.  At least, I did not wake feeling groggy or in any way … im…paired.”  The voice dropped an octave on the last syllable so it was barely audible. 

Aramis kept his thoughts off his face, though they were spinning like a top and the conclusions he was drawing were not pleasant.  “So not drugged.  What did you do on waking?”

“What anybody would do.  I got dressed and went out to see what the screaming was about.”

“Please tell me you left the bloody dagger in the pillow.”

Clearly, d'Artagnan thought silently, there was no end to his stupidity.  "It was … in my hand.”

“Were you born yesterday?" Aramis smacked the boy's knee. "Screaming.  Bloody dagger.  It didn't occur to you that equaled danger?  Did she kill him?" 

"I don't know."  d'Artagnan dropped his head in his hands.  He had no proof, though there was no a doubt in his mind that she had. 

“You need anything ‘sides hot water?”  Porthos stuck his head around the door.  "Who's killin' who?"

“Where’s Athos?”

“In the tap room.  Are we killin' 'im?”

"We need him.  Ask the host to send up a kettle of boiling water and some towels.  We could probably use some extra blankets as well.”

“On it.”

“Hey – an extra pot would be good too, and a cup or a mug, something substantial.”

“Now I need t’ make a list,” Porthos grumbled good-naturedly.  “Prob’ly forget Athos.”

“Don’t let him loiter.”  Aramis turned back to d’Artagnan.  “So you left your room with the bloody dagger in hand…” he drew the words out questioningly. 

“There was a door open on the other side of the landing and people standing around staring at a dead guy in a tub.  The one who'd come in with the ... woman ... the night before.  Somebody’d slit his throat.”

“And there you were – perfectly framed in your doorway – with a bloody dagger in your hand.” 

“Yeah, that … uh … pretty much covers it.” d'Artagnan was not too young to catch the irony.

“And your lady least in sight.”

“More like nowhere in sight.”

“Women,” Aramis intoned, crossing himself as if he’d blasphemed.  “Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em.”  He shifted on the balls of his feet, drew the chair with his bag on it closer and began rummaging in it, discarding pots, jars and stoppered vials.  “You’ve had quite the introduction to Paris, haven’t you?  Ah!  Here’s what I need.” 

“What’s going on?” Athos asked before the door even closed behind him. 

“The dead Spanish ambassador.”  Aramis opened a jar, sniffing it.

“What about him?”

“d’Artagnan knows who murdered him.”  The healer changed his mind, picking through the litter of pots and jars and vials.  "Hmmm, wonder if this might work better."

“I do?” The youth's dark eyes widened even more at this news.  "No, I don't.  I don't know any ambassadors - Spanish or otherwise. 

“Do tell.”  Athos planted his feet and crossed his arms over his chest. 

“Killin’ still the topic?”  Porthos shouldered his way through the door carrying a large, steaming pot.  “Thought you’d be done with that by now.  Better stow it ‘til the landlord makes hisself scarce.  He’s coming up the stairs.”

“Wait,” d’Artagnan hissed, as Aramis gouged out a lump of liniment and began to warm it between his hands.  “I don't know ..." he started, then changed course, "How could I know ..." and again, "What could I possibly have to do with a Spanish ambassador?" 

“Sit back so I can apply this,” Aramis directed, as the host and a helper came in behind Porthos, who was holding the door open with a large, booted foot. 

“Towels on the bed, the rest on the table,” Porthos pointed with his chin, waiting politely until the duo deposited the requested items, then let go of the door so it slammed shut behind them as soon as they were out.  “Where do you want this?”

“On the table for now, but I’ll need a stool or something in a minute. Come on, sit back.”  Aramis flicked a finger at d’Artagnan.

"No!  Not until you tell me what's going on.  I didn't kill anybody!"  d'Artagnan shook his head again, though that caused the room to whirl.  "Well, except for the man at the inn." 

"So you did kill the man at the inn on _Rue de Valois_ ," Athos stated.

"What? NO!"  d'Artagnan's whole body tensed as Aramis spread both hands carefully over the youth’s left side, letting the heat of his hands infuse the aromatic salve into the bruised skin.  "God that hurts.  I did not kill _that_ man!"

“But you were staying at an inn on _Rue de Valois_?” Athos was uncertain if Aramis was distracting the Gascon purposely in an effort to get honest answers - he did occasionally turn up a ruthless side - or the distraction was merely a byproduct of attempting to give the youth some relief.  Aramis had not been the only one to note the listing in the saddle as the afternoon had worn away.  And the bruise was wicked looking.

"Yes, I stayed at that inn, but I did not kill anybody there." 

“Actually, we are probably looking for you,” Aramis mused, “you do rather fit the description now that I have a better understanding of events.”

“Foreign, a bit exotic, longish dark hair, youthful.”  Porthos eyed d’Artagnan.  “Probably injured.  That does cut down the number of suspects.”

“Then who _did_ you kill?” Athos inquired patiently.

d’Artagnan put a hand to his head.  “The man at the inn.” 

“We're going in circles.  What man?  What inn?"

“Not the –”

“Stop!” Aramis commanded, throwing up a salve-covered hand, halting the denial trembling on d’Artagan’s lips.  “Back off Athos, he shot one of the attackers at the inn where his father was killed, the one we dug up that led us back to Dujon, who pointed us in the direction of Gaudet and ultimately Cleared.Your.Name.  d'Artagan did kill not the ambassador, but he probably did see who had that pleasure.  Circumstantial evidence, however, is quite damning, since – as we just found out - he was seen fleeing the scene with a bloody dagger in his hand.”

d’Artagnan shook his head vehemently and subsequently had to employ both hands to hold it on.  “That’s not true.  I dropped the thing in the hallway. And that man was your Spanish ambassador?”

“Moot point.” Aramis wiped his hands on one of the towels.  “You were seen with it in your hands and a number of people witnessed the altercation between you and the ambassador while you were _not_ dining on badger intestines as well.  And yes, the man you challenged was the Spanish ambassador.  Whose lousy with a sword, but that's also a moot point.  Where do you think you’re going?”

d’Artagnan had flung the blanket off as he'd risen.  “They think I killed an ambassador!  I can’t just sit here waiting for them to catch up with me.  You saw the justice Athos got, on less than a suspicion of evidence!” There was a brief tug-of-war over his shirt as Aramis grabbed a handful as well. 

“Aht!  Don’t be stupid.  You’re in no condition to go flinging yourself around the countryside.”

“Oh right, it was fine to fling myself around the countryside on behalf of your friend two days ago, but not my own behalf!” Panic had d’Artagnan dropping the shirt to snatch up his father’s cloak.  He whirled away, gasping as the movement stretched and pulled at torn ligaments and cracked ribs.

He did not see Athos shake his head when Aramis and Porthos both moved to intercept.

“Where will you go?  If they are not already, they will be looking for you in Gascony soon."  Athos pulled a chair out at the end of the table and sat down.  “The Spanish ambassador was Richelieu’s spy.  The cardinal will want reparation for his loss.  If you didn't kill him, can you prove who did?” 

Aramis glanced at Porthos, turned back to the table and began putting things casually back into the leather satchel.

d'Artagnan sagged over the back of the chair he'd just vacated, unable to catch his breath.  "No.  I don't even know that she did it."  He did not consider himself naive, nor particularly stupid, but he had certainly been thoroughly taken in by her apparent sincerity and ... that heaving bosom.  "Though she did have access to my dagger."

"Who was she?"

"I don't know who she was!  We were chance met and she was gone when I woke."

"If you don't have a name or, I have to assume, a direction, do you have a description at least?"  Athos drummed his fingers on the tabletop.  "Surely if you slept with her, you can remember what she looked like."

d'Artagnan dropped his head, hair swinging forward to hide the blush that swept uncontrollably from chest to forehead. "Dark hair, shoulder length, curly," he muttered, "oval face, bit of a prominent nose, witchy mouth."

"Any scars or otherwise identifying marks?"

"Yes," d'Artagnan jerked his head up.  "She wore a wide necklace made out of some material, even while we ... the whole time.  It covered what looked like a rope burn." 

It was Athos' turn to glance up sharply.  "Around her neck?"  Gooseflesh prickled every square inch of skin as if someone had walked over his grave.  He did not so much as shift in his chair though, dismissing the odd feeling with an internal shrug.  It was just the uncannily similar description of his dead wife playing havoc again.

"Yes, an odd kind of a scar."

"Did she say how she got it?"

The intense blue eyes were piercing in their regard.  d'Artagnan hesitated only a second.  "No.  I asked.  She would not say."  No need to tell anyone he'd offered to kill the man who'd left her with that scar.

Athos watched the thin fingers clench and unclench convulsively before lifting his gaze back to the dark eyes that dropped immediately.  "A word of advice; if you're going to lie, learn to do it convincingly." 

That provoked a scowl.  "I don't think it has anything to do with the death of your ambassador." d'Artagnan flicked his eyes back to Athos, though he could not meet the steady look trained on him.  "It was obviously an old scar."

"Perhaps if you thought more and were slower to act you wouldn't be in this situation."  Athos rose.  "You will return to Paris with us." 

“Seems to me,” Porthos joined the conversation for the first time, “safest place in France for you right now, is in the middle of a trio of hand-picked King’s Musketeers.  If you’re under our protection, no one can touch you.”

“You mean – your prisoner.”  d'Artagnan's glance shot instinctively to the door.  They'd already taken him once in a fair fight - so to speak - he was no match for any one of them alone at the moment.  He'd be lucky if he made it as far as the door. 

“Porthos, did we bring shackles this trip?"  Athos inquired.  "No matter, if not, I'm sure we can find a blacksmith in Calais.  In the meantime we can just bind and gag him and throw him over his horse.  We don't have time to take him back to Paris before we pick up the package."  He strolled to the door.  "Is this all you wanted from me?"  The hat brim rose, revealing a lifted eyebrow.  "Or do we have other felons traveling with us that I don't know about?"

“Enough,” Aramis said mildly, noting the wildly beating pulse points at the youth's temple and throat.  “Now you’re just torturing him.  Go back to your solace, but remember you made me swear to shoot you between the eyes if you ever fell wholly into its embrace again.  Porthos, I need the stool from over by the bed.” 

“I did, didn’t I.”  Athos sighed again, adjusted his hat brim and removed himself from the room.

d’Artagnan waited until the door closed behind the musketeer to discard the cloak he'd snatched up and sink back down on the chair he was leaning over.  “I’m not going back to Paris.”

Aramis, resonating Athos’ sigh, put the small stool Porthos had handed him between d’Artagnan’s feet and set the smaller second pot of hot water, now giving off an aromatic steam, on top of it.  "No one's going to make you go anywhere you don't want to.  Lean forward so you're breathing right over the vapor," he directed, “Athos’ brand of humor is occasionally obnoxious, especially when he's in a bad mood.  Not so far it hurts!" he admonished, catching d'Artagnan's grimace.  "Damn, we've frightened the wits right out of him, Porthos."

"Only natural, he's just a pup,  full-grown mongrels would shy off takin' on Athos right now."

"Still in the room," d'Artagnan huffed.  "Not a puppy that followed you home either."

"Puppy!" Aramis and Porthos exclaimed in unison. 

"Mmmm, think you've just acquired a new nickname," Aramis laughed, drawing the blanket over d'Artagnan's head to keep the mist contained. 

"I'm gonna get a fire started, take the chill off the room."  Now that the tension had dissipated somewhat, Porthos stripped off his cloak, hanging it on a peg by the door.

"Thank you."  Aramis, who had been thinking he should go do that, collected the wide-mouth mug Porthos had brought up, dumped the entire contents of the satchel out on the table top and began selecting ingredients for the next potion.  A pinch of butterbur went in, along with a bit of wild indigo, some mullein, powdered boswellia and lobelia, and then hot water from the original large pot was ladled over the concoction.

He added a dash of his own combination of valerian and passion flower, left it to steep and checked on d'Artagnan, who looked a bit like an angry, half-drowned puppy, but was at least breathing easier.  "I'd recommend you stay under the blanket until the steam subsides, though you may certainly do as you please.  You are only my responsibility insofar as you allow it."

That took a bit of the wind out of the youth's sails.  d'Artagnan said nothing, but remained seated with the blanket over his head until Aramis returned and tossed it over the back of the chair.  He replaced it with a dry one, again wrapping it around the youngster's shoulders, before putting the earthenware mug into d'Artagnan's hands. 

"I strained it so you're not getting all the flotsam, and added honey, but it will still be a little bitter.  The vapor helped to open the airways here," Aramis touched  two fingers to the sides of d'Artagnan's nose, "making it easier to breathe right away.  This," he pointed at the mug of tea, "will work on the deeper congestion and the inflammation of the lungs that causes it."  He left out the part about it putting his patient to sleep.  If the puppy was already plotting his escape, it would only provoke further argument and Porthos had the right of it. 

Tréville had had the information on Ambassador Mendoza'sdeath from the cardinal, along with the order for Athos' arrest.  He had mentioned it briefly in passing, after the mockery of a trial in the king's audience chamber, just before sending Aramis and Porthos off on what they had all imagined would be a wild goose chase.  In the flurry of trying to clear the charges against Athos, the garrison had been in chaos, but Tréville had a mind for details.  He might make the connection without the name, but if d'Artagnan's name had come to light, there was no doubt Tréville knew exactly where he was.  Aramis wondered if the captain had already put another Musketeer detail on their trail.

He pulled a chair over and sat knee to knee with d'Artagnan.  Porthos had a good blaze going in the fireplace, already he could feel the air beginning to warm. "I'm sorry, I didn't finish when I realized the implications of your bloody dagger."  He reached to lay a hand along the boy's throat, measuring both heart beat and respiration.  "It doesn't appear you've broken any ribs, but there are a couple that are cracked.  I will bind them again, but you will need to be cautious with your movements for awhile.  I would rather you not be on horseback, but that's a problem, whether you continue with us or go off on your own." 

d'Artagnan, who'd drawn back a bit from the hand against his throat, now unconsciously leaned into it. 

Aramis moved the backs of his fingers to the flushed cheek, then sat back.  “Where there is trauma to the chest, there often follows a wet rasp of the lungs, making it difficult to breathe.  If you’re not breathing properly, your heart cannot work properly.  Do you see the vicious circle this begins to create?”

“I’m dying?”

Aramis, for a moment, was taken aback.  “No,” he said decisively, “did you think you were?”

The eyelids drooped, barely showing crescents of dark brown dotted with tiny flecks of iridescent gold, and the narrow chest heaved again.  “It does not matter.”

“Well it matters to me.  You have just saved the life of a very good friend; we are in your debt.”

“There is no debt.  I did what I had to do to find my father’s murderer.  My job here is done.  I don’t know why I even accompanied you back to Paris.  I should have collected my father’s body and gone home from the inn.”  Though if he had, he might even now be in the cardinal's custody.  Or dead.

“Perhaps fate intervened.” 

Rather churlish of fate, d’Artagnan thought, to take his father’s life in payment for the devil’s bargain it was offering.  He found the empty mug strangely weighty and was grateful when Aramis took it and set it on the table.  Then found his own hands equally heavy as they dropped to his lap.  He blinked slowly, lifting his head again with effort.  "What ... what did you give me?"  The alarm in his eyes did not make it to the sluggishly slurred words.

"A very light sedative, to quiet your racing thoughts so your mind will allow your body to get the rest it needs.  Trust me, you weren't going anywhere tonight, this will just help you sleep."

"Probably not the best choice of words," Porthos pointed out lazily from where he'd stretched out on the uncomfortable looking sofa before the fire.  "Think I'll take a nap 'fore supper."

Aramis shook his head.  "He could sleep on a clothesline.  Porthos has the gift for sleep."

"Soldier's got to sleep when he can," Porthos mumbled.

"I envy that gift," Aramis said, meaning it, to the accompaniment of light snores.  He slid a hand under d'Artagnan's elbow.  "Come on, let's get you to bed so you can sleep as well."

This time d'Artagnan was well aware that he was being divested of his boots and britches without his consent, though he could not seem to drum up the necessary will to halt the proceedings.  In what seemed like the blink of an eye he was lying on his back, cocooned inside a warm nest of pleasantly heavy, lavender-scented blankets that reminded him of home.  He succumbed, though rancorously, to the  seditious betrayal. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With grateful thanks to ALL who've spent time in this story whether you've left kudos, stayed to write a note, or just wandered through without leaving forensic evidence behind. I understand the commodities value of time these days and I very much appreciate every moment you spend with me.
> 
> Thanks also to my fabulous Stargate beta and BFF, Annejackdanny, who agreed to cross my i's and dot my t's for me in yet another new fandom. Since this is such a short chapter, I will make every effort to the get the next one up this evening.  
> 

Aramis took himself off to join the _comte_ in the tap room.  Porthos joined them for dinner, reporting that their young companion was sound asleep, but suggested they move to a table by the window overlooking the stables - just in case the youth was more skilled at deceit than he had displayed so far. 

"Well?" Aramis demanded, when even the dessert had been cleared away and only a wine decanter and glasses still decorated the table.

Since they were both looking at him, Athos obliged with a, "Well what?"

"You've not said a word about the whelp the whole evening," Porthos observed, throwing an arm over the back of the chair as he turned it and stretched his feet out. 

"What do you want me to say?"  Athos settled back as well.  Plucking the glass up from the table, he ran his finger around the rim so it sang softly.  Not with the same resonance as the de la Fère crystal, but it made music of a sort.

"He did not kill the ambassador," Aramis said grimly.

"He did not kill the ambassador," Athos repeated obligingly. 

"You know, sometimes you can be a real ass."  Aramis scowled.

"He's ain't the only one, so climb down off your high horse," Porthos suggested mildly.  "The question is now, how do we cajole him into coming along willin' like.  'Cause I for one, don' like the idea of draggin' him along unwillin’ like."

"He wants to be a Musketeer."

Athos sent one of his cryptic looks in Aramis' direction.  "Are you suggesting we lure him with the carrot of a commission?"

"Lure is a bit harsh."

"Entice?" Athos proffered, lifting his wine glass as if in salute. 

"He did not kill the ambassador."

"So you've said, a number of times now.  Care to share why you are so certain it's true."

"Did you think he was lying before you asked him about the woman's explanation?"

"No."

"Then?"  Aramis was the only one still using the table top as a prop. He leaned forward on his elbows.  "What reason would he have to lie in the first place?"

Athos raised a lazy eyebrow.  "I don't know.  But I also know nothing about him.  Perhaps he is an inveterate liar, so good at it he's deceived all of us with his fiery zeal for justice."

"He's a farm boy, fresh from a place where swords are used as decorative pieces to adorn a mantel, he's incapable of deceit on that level.  Now stop playing devil's advocate and put that ridiculously brilliant mind to work on how to solve this problem."

"Aramis, there is no problem to solve.  If he is a serious seeker of justice, he will return to Paris with us of his own free will.  He will lodge his account of the happenings, and the female's description, with Tréville, and that will be the end of it.  If he is not what you think he is, then, should he escape your tender mercies, we will track him down and haul him to Paris in chains if we have too."

"He'll come of his own free will," Porthos stated unequivocally. "An I'm as certain as Aramis that he didn't kill the ambassador." 

"And I repeat - then there is no problem to solve.  Bring on the cards, Porthos.  Host," Athos raised his voice slightly, "another bottle of your best brandy."

Athos had closed the subject; Aramis knew better than to push harder.  He could only lay the ground work, the rest would be up to d'Artagnan. 

An hour later, with Athos cheating his way out of a hundred thousand livre debt, Aramis tossed in his hand.  "I'm going to check on the patient and will probably turn in myself.  It's been a long week."  Since the pair were already half way to well soused and Porthos had taught the _comte_ to cheat, he felt no obligation to stay and referee.  

Porthos lifted a hand, eyes on his cards, Athos nodded, and Aramis left the tap room to make his way upstairs. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

In their room, Aramis lit a new candle from the single one they'd left burning in its holder on the table, found d'Artagnan deeply asleep still, breathing steady and without apparent stress.  Satisfied, he went back to the table to mix a second batch of herbs, then nestled the wide-mouthed mug among the glowing coals in the fireplace so it would heat up and stay warm if needed in the night and took himself off to bed too. 

He was as tired as he'd claimed and dropped off quickly, an unusual gift, for he often wrestled long and hard with Morpheus before sleep eventually claimed him.  He did not even wake to Porthos and Athos entering the room, boots in hand, just in case.  

It was rare for Aramis to be the first to bed, and when he was, they had learned to come in quietly, for if he had fallen asleep and woke on their return, he rarely found sleep again that night.  They all had their foibles and had - without ever discussing it - found ways to compensate in a manner that allowed each of them to retain a measure of dignity even in the worst of times. 

They had not acquired their nickname by chance, they were inseparable because they had quickly discovered they were better together.  Each complimented the others in a dozen small ways, making the whole stronger and more capable than any of them could be individually.  Together they were virtually unstoppable, instead of rather than despite their individual faults. 

Porthos built up the fire again, shifting logs and adding kindling with no more than a pop here and there as the flames licked at particularly porous knots full of sap.  Since they were sleeping indoors, and in a real bed, he stripped to his smalls and crossed the width of the cool room quickly to slide into bed beside Aramis. 

Sharing had been ingrained in the pair from working together prior to Athos joining the garrison.  Beds had often been scarce on missions, so sharing had become a habit rather than one or the other sleeping on the floor.  Unless the bed was so small as to require entangled limbs.  Aramis drew the line at that, since Porthos slept like the dead from the moment his head hit the pillow to the moment his internal clock woke him in the morning.  Moving him was a physical impossibility. 

Athos did not share well.  He was not a heavy sleeper either and would - if required - share with Porthos, but he refused to sleep in the same bed as Aramis, since the younger man tossed and turned a great deal. 

So Athos ended up on the ugly couch, since he was definitely not sharing with the puppy, as Porthos had christened their youthful tag-along, even if the kid slept as unmoving and silent as a boulder.  In awhile he would move since he didn't mind sleeping on the floor, but for now, slumber would not be wooed and so long as he did not try to squeeze his whole body inside the sloped arms, the sofa was tolerable. 

The capricious wind had carried bits and pieces of the afternoon's conversations up to him, a word here, a tone there.  The youth's wistfulness had lifted the heavy bars warding the vault of his memories, wrenching open doors Athos had kept carefully closed for going on five years.  Perhaps the stress of facing a firing squad intent on ending one's life had sapped his strength, but he could not seem to force them shut again.  Memories daylight had made transparent came tumbling out now like puppies at play, romping heedlessly through the well-ordered rooms of his mind, leaving muddy footprints behind. 

An artist's easel stood sentry in one of those tidy internal rooms, the brush, wielded by an exquisite unseen hand, painting idyllic scenes on wide canvases.  A meadow full of blossoms shoulder-high on little boys, the summer sun enhancing the fragrance of the flowers and warming young bones grown cold over the long winter in the too big house with only governesses and tutors for company.  A merry rill that, in his mind even on the canvas, trickled with the most delightful melody a childish ear could ever wish to hear, where the stones were set just right for skipping across the water with unfettered joy.  A forest of trees surely planted with small children in mind, limbs spread wide to cloudless autumn skies, with views from their tip top branches that Athos had been sure as a child, went all the way to Belgium.  And on yet another canvas, snow fell in silent drifts, coating trees with magical twinkling brilliance and hills with deep covers of cold white flakes so falling off a makeshift sled was like falling into the feather mattresses on their beds. 

Flowers bloomed, faded, and bloomed again, in the jewel box gardens surrounding the house.  And then there came to life on the canvas, a picture of his mother from the last time they had been together, the sunshine-hued gown pooling around her feet rivaling the golden yellow of the patch of daffodils behind the bench.  Thomas, at ten, snuggled in beside her, Athos' mature fourteen lounging at her feet, though in his memory, they had both been raptly involved in her story of life at court. 

Athos was careful to keep his sigh silent as he lifted an arm to drape over his eyes, closing him inside the darkness of his mind.  The invisible artist was not done.  Life had not been all drudgery, even after he had inherited the title just a few days after that memory had been made.  The loss of their parents had had less of an impact on carefree Thomas, whose experience with their parents had been limited to begin with and whose life had not been disrupted by the sudden change in circumstances for the new _comte_. 

Thomas had been irrepressible.  Full of life and determined to live every moment of it to the fullest.  Their scrapes and adventures had been legendary, though Olivier - as Athos had been called in his youth - had been more of a scapegoat than a companion.  Being the title bearer, the fallout had not rained down so much when he took the blame, as it had been wont to do on Thomas for his misdeeds

There had been mad dash horse races, curricle challenges, wrestling matches to test their youthful strength, lazy days fishing or wandering the estate on horseback and on foot.  And time to reflect, alone in the evenings in the massive library. 

But then the artist's hand faltered.  The brush strokes became broader, details blurred, the edges lost their crispness and the pictures became dark, though in his memories, uninhibited joy had reigned in those first months of his marriage. 

Crushing despair brought Athos to his feet.  He'd spent five years trying to escape those memories, he would not let them drag him back to the bottom of a bottle.  Finding his boots where he'd left them by the door, he tiptoed out again and headed for the stables.  He needed to clear his mind, not muddle it further with alcohol. 

d'Artagnan might be the catalyst for opening the memory vault, but it was not the youngster's fault and blaming him was neither fair nor sporting. 

Collecting his horse, he walked it from the barn, grabbed a hank of mane and swung up to ride bareback at a cautious pace down the long, rutted track that led back to the road.  But the moment they turned onto it, he bent over the black's neck, giving the horse leave to stretch out in a league-eating stride that he halted only when weariness began to loosen his tightly clasped knees and the fingers clenched in the coarse mane.  They stood for a long time, horse and rider blowing equally hard, before Athos turned them back toward their temporary abode, straightening upon the wide, bare back to return at a more sedate canter. 

He rubbed the horse down, replenished the hay and passed out nose rubs and pats to the three still snuffling drowsily in their stalls before heading inside the inn. 

Perhaps the trip down memory lane educed the memory of his valet, whose dour face appeared in Athos' mind's eye as he sat to remove his boots at the bottom of the stairs. 

He had inherited the man servant as though the valet came with the title, passed on as part of the entailment from father to son.  Thomas had urged him repeatedly to pension off the old retainer and find a younger man as replacement, but Athos had never been particularly comfortable with the intimacy of a valet, and a new one would have meant a further intrusion into his privacy.  His father's valet, at least, had been someone he'd known.

He no longer wore boots he could not remove himself. 

Athos shook off the clinging memories and headed up the stairs, cracking open the door of their room to slide through.  He set his boots down quietly, clicked the door closed with barely a snick and leaned back against it to let his vision adjust to the much lower light.  The wick of the candle on the table guttered, hissing a soft death rattle, in its own puddle of wax.  Across the room the fire had burnt down to little more than a glow of coals.

Aramis, a fiend for fresh air, had cracked the window open between the beds.  Athos went to close it since either the room had chilled considerably while he'd been gone, or the ride had chilled him.

He did not hear so much as sense the distress in the bed with the single occupant.  Athos froze, half twisted as he turned from closing the window. Between heartbeats he realized it had not been entirely his own despair that had driven him from the room, the wrenching desolation hovering like a miasma over d'Artagnan had affected him as well.  Of its own accord, his stockinged foot slid toward Aramis, then stopped. 

Both he and Porthos had apprenticed as Aramis' aides, he was skilled enough to deal with small emergencies and he'd seen the mug in the coals.  Still Athos hesitated.  He was not particularly keen on the fact that the youth had already wormed his way into their trio, no matter how indebted he himself might be to the young man.  

But if he woke Aramis, no one would sleep the rest of the night.  He was more than tempted to do so anyway, but in the end, Athos moved silently across the room, collected the mug and returned to d'Artagnan.  He had to peel back several layers of blankets before his questing hand encountered overheated skin.  No doubt the concoction in the mug would deal with that, but beneath his hand, the hot shoulder heaved with silent weeping. 

The youth startled at his touch, caught for an instant between dreams and reality.  "Father?"

The hoarse whisper, so full of shining hope as d'Artagnan tentatively trod the bridge to wakefulness, winged its way like an arrow straight through Athos' well-defended borders.  Some undetected icy bit not even Athos had realized he still harbored melted under the onslaught of that single utterance.  And in that moment, despite his best efforts, he lost the battle.  He would never be a father and he was too young to be father to this youth, but, he grudgingly acknowledged, if only to himself, there was something imminently likable about the youth. 

Perchance being around Aramis had coaxed his empathy back to life, perhaps it was the not-too-distant memory of Aramis' response to his own tortured nightmares, but Athos set the mug down carefully at his feet and sat on the side of the bed.  He did not speak, for that would wake both d'Artagnan and Aramis.  He bent forward, sliding one hand beneath a hot, damp cheek, wiping away the unconscious tears with a tender thumb.  The other he cupped around the back of d'Artagnan's neck, fingers slipping into the sweat-soaked hair to knead gently. 

"Father," d'Artagnan murmured again, nestling into the cradling palm with an absolute trust that could not be feigned. 

Athos felt the distended tendons at neck and shoulder relax instantly, then tense again as reality regained a foothold.  Athos deepened his breathing and let his hands convey all the warmth and tenderness he imagined a father might feel for his child, gentling the glide of his fingers to a slow, steady rhythm. 

d'Artagnan's labored breathing slowed as well, the tears drying on his cheeks as peaceful repose was restored.  On a deep sigh, as though on some level his subconscious whispered truth, he rolled to his back, flinging an arm above his head.

Athos released him gently, though his hands felt strangely empty when he did.  He did not rise immediately, but sat listening to the subtle sounds of grief only another sufferer could discern.  He knew its muffling effect, the pall it cast over mind and body, the life force it sucked out of its victims. 

He had been grieving for five long years; it was time to put off his mourning and live again.  Perhaps d'Artagnan had been placed in his path for a purpose, though Athos did not adhere to Aramis' belief that God's hand could be seen in the day to day business of life. 

Still, now that he had relaxed enough to at least lower the walls around his heart, he heard the resonant hum of a like-minded soul, though one as yet little tarnished by the vagaries of life.

Athos rose quietly and drew the covers back over d'Artagnan, then stood another moment in the darkness, contemplating.  He had turned brusquely away from Porthos' suggestion that he had any kind of mentoring skills, but hadn't he spent the last three years mentoring the younger sons of the nobility - not necessarily to greatness, but at least to competence. 

Aramis had been right too; d'Artagnan, even hurt, had made him sweat when they'd crossed swords.  The youth had fire and zeal, passion, and even skill, aplenty; what he needed was tempering.

Life's forge had seen to it that Athos had had plenty of tempering. 

Aramis would say a fourth squared them off and made them stronger, a table instead of a tripod.  Porthos would just say - _it's a good fit_ \- and, as usual,  they would both be right. 

Athos felt his way around the end of the bed, tossed the coat he shrugged out of to land with a light whuffle over the back of the sofa, snitched one of d'Artagnan's blankets and laid  himself down on top of the covers.  After all, staying in close proximity would allow Aramis to sleep and they'd all be better off in the morning, as a sleep-deprived Aramis tended to be captious.  If he woke himself occasionally and soothed their youthful companion back to sleep again, no one was the wiser. 

As the sun came questing through the windows seeking to wake the slumbering, Porthos, always first to respond to morning's caress, peered muzzily around the room counting heads as was his habit when out on assignment.

One in the bed next to him, one in the bed on the other side of the window and one still asleep in front of the fireplace.

All was right with the world. 


	5. Chapter 5

d'Artagnan woke to bright sunlight streaming through the window and the sound of birds going about their morning routine with cheerful disregard for late sleepers.  He started up only to fall back when the walls of the room expanded, then contracted, then expanded again.  Not only did his limbs feel heavy and lethargic, he would have sworn the very blood in his veins moved sluggishly. 

For a disoriented moment the expanding and contracting room defied placement.  He could not remember where he was and panic began tiptoeing to the forefront.  He shoved it back and sat up, ignoring the strange sensation of the pulsing room.  Memory stirred and woke as well, giving panic cause to push forward again. 

_That_ stirred his blood, but d'Artagnan squashed it with a single glance around the room.  He had not been arrested, the cardinal's guards were not banging at the door or even in the inn or the Musketeers would not have left him alone.  He heaved a sigh of relief, wrapped his arms around his ankles and rested his cheek on his blanket-covered knees. 

Nor had he been left behind.  A row of rapiers still hung from pegs by the door. 

Inventorying his choices did not take long.  Go or stay.

If he decided to leave, Brussels would be closest  if he just wanted to leave France.  Surely the Red Guard - if they were searching - would turn back at the border.  Or he could go on with the Musketeers to Calais and take ship from there, though he was not absolutely certain they would allow it.  In which case, if he wanted to take ship, he should turn south again and head for Le Havre.  But that left his father's body unshriven and unburied. 

Or he could stay with the Musketeers, return to Paris with them, lodge his testimony with Tréville and, like a good son, collect his father and take him home for burial.  It really wasn't a matter of choice, but duty. 

Shoving back the pile of blankets, d'Artagnan dragged himself to the side of the bed and gingerly put his feet to the floor.  His side, he thought, when he shoved up to standing, did not hurt quite so much and he could definitely breath better.  He stepped to the window, squinting against the bright sun, and saw that Athos was washing from a bucket under the pump between the back of the inn and the stable. 

Assuming the man would be gone by the time he made his slow way downstairs, d'Artagnan gathered his clothes, cracked the door and made a reconnaissance glance up and down the hall.  He thought he remembered the innkeeper mentioning they were his only guests, but he'd gone to bed before the sun had gone down, others might have arrived in the meantime.  He hoped their windows did not overlook the pump if they had, since he was desperately in need of a thorough wash. 

As luck would have it, Athos was still there, though he did not even glance up.  d'Artagnan stopped short just outside the back door, huddling in the lee of the building since the morning breeze still carried yesterday's bite and he was next to naked.  Gooseflesh prickled his skin from scalp to toes. 

"Come and make yourself useful."

"Useful?" d'Artagnan's teeth were chattering.  Athos was stripped to the waist and looked as though he was bathing in the summer sunshine. 

"Pump."

"Oh."

"Unless it would bother your side too much."

It was a neutral statement, neither sarcastic nor a poke, though d'Artagnan heard a challenge.  Striding forward, he dumped his clothes on a patch of grass and grabbed the handle.  Painful or not, water began to gush from the pump and Athos stuck his soapy head under it.  d'Artagnan had no intention of complaining. 

It had to be freezing cold, but the man did not hurry in the least, rinsing his hair and beard and washing his face thoroughly before unfolding as he stepped back and shook like dog. 

d'Artagnan clamped his teeth shut on the huff of surprise as those freezing drops sprayed him too.   He waited until Athos picked up a towel and began to dry himself off before asking politely, "Are you done?"

"Yes."  Athos pulled his shirt over his head, shrugging into it.  "Unless you want to freeze to death out here, Aramis asked the innkeep to ready a bathing chamber for you," he tossed over his shoulder as he headed back into the inn. 

d'Artagnan ground a bare heel into the dirt as he turned, gaze following Athos' departure.  He did not see Aramis lounging in the doorway until Athos side-stepped to go around the healer. 

Aramis cocked a thumb over his shoulder.  "It's a bit warmer in here."

d'Artagnan gathered up his clothes and didn't ask questions, just followed where he was led.  Which proved to be a small room walled floor to ceiling with river stone, roaring fires going on both sides of it and in between, a large copper tub.   The super-heated stone beneath his feet and on the walls bathed d'Artagnan in a lovely warmth.  He could see wisps of steam curling up from the tub, and the room, instead of carrying the decaying scent of mold and mildew many such rooms stank of, smelled of fresh lavender and mint. 

"This is for bathing." Aramis handed him an open crock of soap.  d'Artagnan's hand lifted to take it without thought.  "This is for putting on your side again before you get dressed."  Aramis lifted the youngster's other hand and put into it the pot of liniment he had used on the bruise the previous evening.  "The heat will enhance its effectiveness, don't be stingy with it, put on a good coating and then sit for a bit until it absorbs so you don't get it all over your clothes.  It's a mess to wash out."

"Aramis..."

Aramis, already at the door by the time d'Artagnan found his tongue, glanced back over his shoulder.  When the youth said nothing more, he cocked his head.  "Aramis what?" he prompted, attempting to keep the grin off his face. Their puppy was looking very bewildered.

"I didn't expect ..."  d'Artagnan could not find the right words, but he tried again.  "I don't even know ... I could have ..."

"You're welcome." Aramis let a bit of the grin peek out as he winked, then whisked himself out the door, closing it with a decisive slam. 

He pulled a chair out, joining Porthos, and a still damp Athos, at their table in the dining room.  "That was unkind," he remarked, as the innkeeper hurried over.  "I'll take what they're eating.  And coffee, if you please."

The host bowed.  "Very good, sir.  Anna will bring you a plate shortly."  

"What was unkind?" Porthos washed down the last of his plateful with a tankard of ale. "The biscuits here 'r divine," he added, patting his belly with a satisfied belch.  "Kippers ain't too bad either.

"I wasn't talking to you."  Aramis picked up a fork as if to inspect it for cleanliness. 

Athos met the gaze directed at him over the tines with a shrug.  "I could have let him bathe out there."

"You're the one who said to leave him to wake alone," Porthos noted, disapprovingly.  "Thinkin' we'd left 'im behind."

"I said nothing of the kind."  Aramis pointed the fork accusingly at Porthos. 

"Didn't haveta, it was written all over your face.  Shake 'im up a little an 'ell be more accomodatin' 'bout accompanying us."

Aramis scowled.  "Alright, I admit, the thought did cross my mind that if there was a bit of panic on waking alone, it might not be a bad thing.  But we left all our gear in the room, it would only have been a second or two."

"Happen if he can't take a bit of cold, he don't belong in the Musketeer's," Porthos stated, ending Aramis' little huff.

Athos lifted his coffee cup in salute.  "Thank you for taking my side for a change."

The table rocked as Porthos shoved back from it.  "Happen I don' take sides either," he said, rising.  "Aramis is usually right."

Aramis smirked. 

Athos tipped his head in acknowledgement.  "Indeed."

"Where are you going?" Aramis inquired. 

"To check on the puppy so as to let 'im know we ain't all deserted him." 

Aramis laughed as he watched Porthos saunter out of the dining room.  "He's very good at that, you know.  Slapping you down and then picking you right back up again."

Athos, on his second cup of coffee, hummed his agreement.  It was undeniably true.  Porthos was rarely loquacious, but when he did speak, it was always eloquent no matter the diction he chose to use in the moment.  "He seems quite taken with the boy."

"I think he sees something of himself in d'Artagnan," Aramis observed, startling a little as Anna lowered a plate over his shoulder to the table.  He smiled his thanks and put the threatening fork to use.  "Years apart, but d'Artagnan too, has lost an only parent to death. They're both the quiet, observant types as well.  Have you noticed he rarely speaks unless directly addressed?"

"Yes, but I had assumed that was in consequence of not feeling well."

The forkful of steaming meat pie stopped.  "That's not something I'd considered.  You could be right."

"An unusual occurrence," Athos intoned drily.  "Mark the calendar."  He returned his coffee cup to its saucer, fastidiously wiped his hands and mustache with the provided linen cloth and pushed back from the table as well.  "I will be in the stables when you've properly restored our guest to sartorial splendor after his bath."

"Why do you resent him?" Aramis asked, no trace of hostility in his voice, just inquiry. 

Athos jerked as if he'd been slapped and turned back around to face the seated musketeer.  "I ..." He sat back down with a heavy sigh.  "He reminds me very much of my younger brother."

Aramis was well acquainted with how wrenching Athos found it to speak of family.  "I suppose," he offered quietly, "it would not be out of the ordinary to transfer your resentment of your brother's death to another, especially one who is so vitally alive and a force to be reckoned with."

"Perhaps it is more envy than resentment.  Thomas would be only a little older ..."  Athos closed his eyes.  His phantom artist was right there again, brush flying across the canvas of his mind.  It was a picture of himself, hand over his mouth, the brush capturing the crimson blood streaming like bright ribbons down over that hand, irretrievably staining the cotton lawn of his shirt.  Across from him, Thomas stood staring, the whip still in his hand, the horror on his face flawlessly portrayed.   

He'd been twelve to Thomas' eight and they'd both been mad to be whips like the swells they occasionally saw tooling down the country lanes. 

John Coachman had indulged Olivier with lessons while teaching him to drive the light curricle that would one day be his.  Thomas had begged to be taught as well, but the coachman had refused, considering the child too young.  So the brothers had stolen into the carriage house to borrow  a pair of whips so Olivier could share this new bit of prowess. 

Thomas had always been a quick study and had picked up the necessary flick of the wrist quickly. The snap of the whip on grass, though, had palled quickly, and they'd moved to the harder surface of the estate road that curved around behind the stables. 

It had been an accident. Thomas had snapped the whip just as Olivier had stepped toward him, the backlash catching and flaying Olivier's top lip. 

Athos did not realize his fingers had risen of their own accord until they touched the scar.  He dropped his hand immediately,  gaze flashing to Aramis who was studying his newly arrived coffee cup intently. 

"It is not a pretty reminder, but I think of him every time I see it," Athos said quietly.

Aramis looked up, allowing his curiosity to show.  "What happened?"

Athos told him, surprisingly, a very faint smile carving a wistfulness into the features Aramis could not remember ever seeing on the man's face in the three years he'd known him.  "I'm having trouble imagining you as anything but a serious, obedient child."

"It's true, I was a serious child, but obedience was not an issue.  We had the run of the place when our parents were gone.  Which was often."

Aramis eyed the scar with more respect.  "That must have been a wicked gash to leave a scar like that."

"It was, but we told no one about it. I don't remember now why not.  I suppose we thought we'd get in trouble.  Perhaps if we had and a physician had been called, it might not have left quite such a hideous disfigurement."

Oh, there was a story there too, Aramis thought.  Somewhere down the line a youthful Athos had been told that scar was repulsively mutilating, but he left it alone, certain further probing would only result in a slamming of the doors the adult incarnation of that youth had opened briefly. 

"I don't resent d'Artagnan, I resent what his presence is churning up."  Athos rose again.  "Since Porthos has already decreed we're taking him on, I suppose I'd better either get used to it or figure out how to lock away those memories again."  He turned for the door to the chambers above. 

"Athos --" 

Athos stopped but did not turn around this time.

"d'Artagnan is fragile, too, especially right now with everything he's ever known turned upside down and a murder charge hanging over his head.  A kind word from you would go a long way."  Aramis watched the head tilt before a soft-voiced question floated back over tensed shoulders. 

"You think I'm fragile?"

"Not now," Aramis murmured, weighting the pair of words with three years of comradeship.  "Neither of us has forgotten what it's like though," he added, taking the sting out of the observation with the admission of his own vulnerability. 

The tensed shoulders squared as though some burden had been lifted.  "I will endeavor to be a kinder, gentler jailer," Athos tossed back in his oft used colorless tone, leaving the hearer at a loss as to whether he was the recipient of a pledge or a put-down. 

Aramis watched the _comte_ until he disappeared from sight as well, then put down his coffee cup with a sigh.  Even after three years in company, the man was still a puzzle. 

Distress, whether physical or emotional drew Aramis like a lodestone.  He was incapable of resisting the need to assuage.  He had woken to it in the night, too, and been silent witness to Athos' hesitation and capitulation.  Keen hearing had made translating the sounds that had drifted to him from the other bed relatively easy.  He knew Athos had taken the mug from among the coals but had not administered it to the patient.  He knew, too, that comfort had been forthcoming, because the anxiety he'd heard in d'Artagnan's rapid breathing had steadily decreased. 

He could not decide if Athos had moved from the bed to wrap himself in his cloak on the floor before the fire because he didn't want it known he had a kinder, gentler side, or because the _comte_ was not quite ready to acknowledge it even to himself just yet. 

Aramis was a great believer in fate.  d'Artagnan had not fallen into their midst by chance, perhaps he was meant to be the completion of the saving of one Comte de la Fère.  He heard shuffling in the hallway behind and glanced over his shoulder, turning in the chair to better appreciate Porthos shepherding their puppy into the dining room. 

"Well, you clean up rather spectacularly!"  Aramis observed, grinning at the wisps of wetly curling hair framing the youthful features.  It made d'Artagnan look even younger than he did normally.  "How old _are_ you, by the way?"

"Old enough."  d'Artagnan took the chair pulled out for him.  "I'm not an invalid."

"So much like Athos I'm gettin worried he's gonna stick around after all and we'll have two on our hands."  Porthos moved to the other side of the table to take the opposite chair.    

"Still feeling lousy?" Aramis inquired, pouring a cup of coffee from the pot the host had left on the table and handing it to d'Artagnan. 

Who took it, but lifted it to sniff before taking a tentative sip.  "Ech, what is it?  Some kind of medicine?"

Porthos' hoot of laughter turned into a full belly laugh and Aramis couldn't resist. 

"Sorry, sorry," he hiccupped.  "Not medicine, no!"  And Aramis was off again, unable to help himself. 

d'Artagnan only sat watching them, completely unaffected by their hilarity - which set both the musketeers off again, until Aramis was leaning against Porthos' shoulder garbling, "You're right, you're absolutely right!  Look at that face.  Is that not a portrait of Athos with his fur in a bristle?"

Porthos wiped at his streaming eyes.  "He thinks we've lost our minds.  We're not makin' fun of ya, I promise, just yer expression when ya tasted the coffee was so funny, and then --"

The gales of laughter were still floating out of the dining room when Athos passed by, fully geared up and on his way to the stable.  He paused at the bottom of the stairs, then turned for the dining room, unable to resist the lure of that rare, bright sound.  Their jobs infrequently offered the opportunity to indulge in unrestrained mirth. 

d'Artagnan startled as a hand curled over his shoulder, jerking his head up to see not only  who had come up behind him, but who would dare such familiarity when he knew no one in the vicinity.  His bland expression fell away in shock and only the hand squeezing lightly kept him from darting up out of his chair. 

"I see they are up to their usual tricks already.  Some private joke, gentleman?" Athos tsked.  "Not nice to leave the guest out of the party."

"No no," Aramis hitched, grabbing a breath.  "A funny little moment between the three of us that set Porthos and I off."  He swiped at his own tears of merriment.  "You might like it better with cream and sugar," he said to d'Artagnan, shoving the sugar bowl in the youth's direction and setting a little copper pitcher of cream beside it.  "Easy on the sugar though, unless you like things very sweet."

d'Artagnan did not move, he was frozen in place by that hand on his shoulder.  It had set off little explosions of memory in his head - of dreams of home and the comfort of his father's hands.  Dreams that in the light of day were too vivid and real to be figments of his fevered imagination, though he could not reconcile a reality in which the man behind him featured unless he _had_ been dreaming. 

Athos released him and d'Artagnan exhaled the breath he didn't know he'd been holding.  He caught Aramis' questioning look but ignored it, leaning forward quickly to take up the cause of all the conviviality. 

"Don't let them teach you bad habits," the elder musketeer admonished, spearing first Porthos, then Aramis with an admonitory glance, before strolling out again.  The sound of their laughter stayed with him though, lodging in his soul as though someone had poured water over thirsty, parched ground. 

Porthos tilted his chair back, chuckles still rumbling through his big frame, and propped his feet on the table.  "You don't have to drink it if you don't want.  Coffee can be an acquired taste.  I grew up on the cheap stuff in the Court, made out of chicory instead of coffee beans.  This is much better."

"Beans?" d'Artagnan echoed.  "This is made from beans?  No wonder it tastes so foul."  He was not a lover of beans of any kind. 

"No no no," Aramis said again, taking the cup from between the loosely clasped fingers.  He doctored it sparingly with cream and sugar and handed it back.  "Before you write it off completely, try it this way."

d'Artagnan's eyebrows rose.  "Oh," he said, swallowing more than a tiny sip.  "Oh," he repeated, and started to laugh, though he clamped a hand to his side.

"You've really never had coffee?"  Aramis kept an eye on that hand and the amount of pressure it was applying.

"We drink wine in Gascony.  Babies drink it with their mother's milk.  Bordeaux,  Armagnac, Aquitane,"  d'Artagnan named.  "Wine flows in our rivers.  My father," he lifted the cup again for emphasis, "would have spit this out for piss."

"Well, as Porthos said, it can be an acquired taste.  You certainly don't have to drink it if you don't like it.  What would you like to break your fast?  While the kitchen puts it together, I think we should go up and bind those ribs."

"Porthos already did."  d'Artagnan put the coffee cup down and stood.  "I'm not hungry and Athos is waiting."

"He ain't going anywhere without us," Porthos said, waving the youth back down.

"I'm really not hungry." d'Artagnan did not comply with the suggestion to sit again.  He really did not want to keep Athos waiting.

"You're probably still running a slight fever, it suppresses appetite, but you need to eat.  You slept through dinner last night and ate what?  Two bites of cheese - at the midday meal yesterday."  It wasn't a question, it was a statement of fact; Aramis had been paying attention.  "Something light if your belly is troubling you.  Host," he called, and when the man appeared, "some toast and a couple of cooked eggs, if you please." 

"Right away , sir."

"Nice that we've had the place to ourselves," Porthos observed as the host disappeared into the kitchen again.  "He ain't so far off the beaten path that folks wouldn't find their way back here."

"Who'd want to be out in yesterday's weather?"  Aramis tapped the back of d'Artagnan's hand.  "Is sitting uncomfortable?"

"What?" d'Artagnan shook his head, sitting abruptly.  He was still trying to wrap his head around that dream.  "No." Though he did sit rather straighter in the chair than he had initially.  "I will go back to Paris with you," he said out of the blue.

"Good.  But what brought that on now?"

"I've been thinking is all.  It's the right thing to do."

"Told ya he was smart.  Tréville will make a place for ya in the company."  Porthos crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes, readying to nap again from all appearances.

"No, I will go back with you to lodge testimony, but then I must go home and tend to my father's legacy."

"Why?" Aramis asked bluntly, pushing the plate of eggs and toast put in front of him across the table.

"Because it's the right thing to do,"  d'Artagnan repeated with conviction, though he did not touch the plate.

Aramis reached across, took an egg and began to peel it.  "Why?" he said again.

"Why what?"

"Why is it the right thing to do?"

"It's what my father would have wanted."

Aramis put the peeled egg back and passed over the salt before taking the second one.  "Are you sure about that?" he asked casually.  "Did you know your father had written to Tréville?"

The dark head canted in Aramis' direction.

"I have no idea what the contents were, it was lying on the captain's desk.  But why would he go to the trouble of writing if he did not intend for you to a least interview?"

Porthos cracked an eye open.  "You knew this last night?"

"Honestly," Aramis put the second peeled egg into d'Artagnan's lax hand and closed the fingers around it, "in all the drama surrounding Athos' arrest and trying to find evidence to clear him, I'd forgotten I'd seen it."

"My father wrote to Captain Tréville?"           

Aramis, who had assiduously wooed a selective memory, prodded the hand holding the egg.  " The return address was Alexandre d'Artagnan, Castelmore, Lupiac, Gascony.  The name meant nothing to me when I saw it, so it's taken awhile to work its way to the surface.  Eat."

d'Artagnan, eyes wide in disbelief, obeyed the command, biting off the top of the egg and swallowing it whole as he cataloged every detail he could remember imparting.  "Aramis, you would not make this up just to ... I don't know ..."

"You're asking if I would be so mean-spirited as to try to trick you into returning with us."

"No!" d'Artagnan considered he was destined to appear a puppet in the hands of a rather inept puppeteer as he started up yet again.  Porthos pulled him back down this time. "That's not what I was trying to say."

"Whatever it is you're thinkin', or tryin' to say, he would not.  Aramis don't have a mean bone in his body."  The front legs of Porthos' chair banged emphatically on the floor as he tilted to lean forward over the table.  "Well - that's not exactly true, he does have a mean streak in him, buried real deep.  It only comes out when he's interrogatin' though.  If he says he saw a letter from your father on the cap'in's desk, then it's true.  Eat the rest of that egg, would ya?  Otherwise we aren't gonna get outta here today."  Porthos' head swiveled in a quick survey of their surroundings. "Though that might not be a bad thing."

"Our home is in the village of Castelmore, in Lupiac." d'Artagnan ate the egg in two bites, swallowing the second one in two more. 

"Then perhaps you should put off any final decisions until you know the contents of the letter."  Aramis snitched a piece of the toast, crunching it as he rose.  "We'll make an easy ride today, ugh, burnt," he said, tossing it back on the plate.  "If your side starts to bother you a lot, you have to tell me.  I wish we _could_ stay another day, but Athos' patience ran out five minutes before we arrived with the king's pardon." 

"Not surprisin'." Porthos pushed himself to his feet.  "'Spect mine woulda run out long before that." 

"Mine too," Aramis admitted freely.  "I've been trying to imagine what it must have been like to face a firing squad, expecting death at any moment.  The mind shies away from even thinking about it." 

They went up together to gather their gear, shoulders bumping in friendly fashion, d'Artagnan as much a part of the mix as the Musketeers, though he was quietly introspective.  Aramis' revelation had set the youngster's mind to parsing the last month when plans to go to Paris had begun to come together, searching for any evidence that his father might have believed differently than his rhetoric had always indicated. 

Aramis and Porthos, noting the abstraction, made sure all d'Artagnan's belongings made it on to his person or into his saddlebags.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ: With this chapter, the story begins to turn a bit darker as Athos' past unexpectedly takes physical shape in the form of an old enemy he made in that life he left behind when he joined the Musketeers. While there is nothing particularly descriptive in the following chapters, there is some rather oblique discussion of deviant behaviors as perpetrated by this group of which Athos has made an enemy. Keep in mind that in the 17th century there were those in the upper echelons of society whose sense of entitlement left them with little or no conscience. So if you are uncomfortable with any of the aforementioned information, please go back and reread Chapter Four and let the story end with Porthos waking to count heads. Just sayin' - not interested in any rotten tomatoes so I'm warning you in advance.  
> _______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

d'Artagnan was still cogitating as they rode into Calais.  He had gone over and over and over every conversation in the last month, extending his mental search back through the many heated arguments he had had with his progenitor.  He could not find one single thing to make him think his father had ever given any indication that he would countenance his son joining the king's elite guard.  Nor could he imagine why or what his father might have written to the Captain of the Musketeers.  It was baffling to say the least. 

Calais, being a port town where ships cargos rolled through the streets every day, had wider avenues than even the heart of Paris yet had.  They rode in four abreast, three of them wearing the blue cloaks of the Musketeers; a force to be reckoned with. 

Their package, Athos disclosed, was a priest by the name of Urbain Grandier, from Loudun; a sycophant, apparently of some highly placed Parisian politicians.  The man had been arrested, charged with and found guilty of, immorality.  He was being transported under guard from England, where he had presumably fled for sanctuary until his friends could contrive to have the case heard by the king. 

Aramis observed tartly that the man might better have flown to the sheltering arms of his Parisian deputation, saving everyone the effort of hauling him about. 

They headed straight for the harbor master's office, found their ship was due to dock with the evening high tide and went back into town to find accommodations for the night.  Not even Athos' impatience demanded they begin the journey back to Paris by the light of the moon.

"Sure hope Father Grandier rides, else we'll be a week gettin' home again if we have to hire 'im a carriage."

"I was told he's willing to ride."

"Good." 

"Who caught him?" d'Artagnan wondered aloud, though all thoughts of fleeing himself had been put to rest.

"A delegation of his subordinates knew where to find him," Athos answered, " Richelieu arranged his safe passage back into the country."

"Oh, connections with the cardinal."  Aramis struck a mincing pose - a feat on horseback.  "I'm certain we're destined to become best friends on the ride back to Paris." 

"Tréville mentioned it would be to our benefit to draw him out, find out who his connections are and through what web of deceit he's entangled with the cardinal.  Who knows when information like that might come in handy." 

"Your job, Aramis."  Porthos reined his horse around a deep hole in the street. "You'd be the one with the most in common.  Why's a priest need an armed escort anyway?  Ain't men 'o the cloth supposed to be protected - like in a neutral zone?  Or at least by God?"

"God protects fools and children.  Priests occasionally fall into the first category, but rarely the second." Aramis reined around the same hole.  "Unless they are prophets."

"He's received a number of death threats, likely from abandoned lovers."  Athos turned his head, spearing Aramis with a thoughtful look.  "You have more in common than I'd first considered.  Perhaps you could share trysting confidences."

Aramis laughed.  "Not a chance, I don't kiss and tell."

"I will leave it in your capable hands, then, as to how to draw him out."  While the words did not carry the weight of an order, they all knew one had been given. 

Athos directed them to a side street, and then an alley that led through from the wharf to the business district where lodgings could be found still within walking distance of the many piers and quays that made up Calais' wharf district. 

"It's been awhile since I was here last, but The Seahawk used to be a decent hostelry.  If you care to wait, I will see if they can accommodate us.  No use all of us traipsing in."  Athos swung down and handed his reins to Porthos, his boot heels ringing on the wooden sidewalk down to the hostelry. 

"A lot of traffic," d'Artagnan observed, watching carts and drays roll by, piled high with everything from bales of cotton to barrels of fish brine stamped with the English excise  mark. 

"Lots of commerce through here, easier to smuggle in goods through Calais than the larger, less complacent ports of Marseille or La Havre."  Porthos shared a grin with Aramis as they watched d'Artagnan's head swivel. 

"I suppose you've both been all over the world, having been in the army an all."

"Been to Spain, though not with the army," Aramis answered.  "And the Low Countries.  England once.  Didn't like it much."

"Yeah, I been to Spain too, no place else though, outside'a France.  Not widely traveled."  Porthos set an arm across the saddle horn, holding Athos' reins loosely.

"What's--" d'Artagnan's question trailed off as shouts erupted from inside the hostelry. 

Porthos and Aramis were out of the saddle instantly, flinging reins at d'Artagnan who had been a bit slower to respond. 

"Stay here," Aramis ordered, sword rasping from its sheath as he ducked under his horse's neck.

"But --"

"Stay," Porthos rapped out too, pistol in one hand, sword in the other. 

And then there were two pairs of boots stamping rapidly down the walkway, eating up the short distance to the front door.    

"Not a dog," d'Artagnan growled, struggling to hold four suddenly restive horses as the front door burst open and Athos stumbled into the arms of his comrades with the force of his ejection.

He pushed off Aramis and straightened his clothing before turning slowly to face the livid man framed in the doorway brandishing a naked sword.

"You will meet me at the dueling field tomorrow at dawn!"  The face was purple with rage.  "How dare you set a foot in this town again!"  It was less a question than an accusation, spittle flying with the propulsion of sound. 

"I am engaged on the king's business," Athos said calmly.  "As it is illegal to duel, I no longer indulge my need to run through your kind.  However, if you wish to pursue satisfaction, I am free until sunset.  I will meet you at the nearest fencing salon so long as you agree to first blood."

"First blood!" the obvious lunatic howled, spitting on the _comte's_ boots.  "That's for first blood.  I'll kill you where you stand if you won't draw!"

Athos did not move.  He didn't need to.  Aramis and Porthos, swords unsheathed but by their sides, stepped in front of him.

"You heard the man, he's engaged on the king's business.  Whatever your quarrel, if you're not willing to settle it like a gentleman, you're out of luck."  Aramis' smile was wide and toothy. 

"On the other hand," Porthos invited, "if you're set on bein' dead, you could come at us.  Athos bein' a changed man an all, he might not be able to run you through in good conscience, but we can."

"You son of a bitch, just because you've changed your name doesn't mean you've changed your spots!" 

"A lot of things have changed," Aramis advised, voice softly menacing, despite the innocuous words.  "Put up your weapon and go back inside.  We'll find another place to stay and you will live to see another day."

"Don't shoot," Athos warned.  "This is a private quarrel, but there are others inside.  It's not worth starting a war over."  He lifted his hands away from his sword.  "I will meet you if wish, but I will not let you kill me, nor will I give you the satisfaction of death." 

The eyes narrowed consideringly.  "Domenico's, on the water.  3:00 o'clock," the man spat the words syllable by syllable.  "Say your prayers, de la Fère."  He turned on a booted heel, clearly removing himself from a presence he considered foul.

"Ahhh." Aramis put up his sword.  "I take it you knew him in another life."

Athos did not respond, merely executed an about face and returned to take his horse from d'Artagnan.  "If one is here, they are all here, likely traveling back to England.  We will seek accommodations on the other side of town."

"All?" Porthos echoed.  "Whatta ya mean all?  And you're _not_ going to meet him alone."  He retrieved his reins from the wide-eyed youth as well.  "No matter what you say."

"No, otherwise I might be tempted to run him through.  I expect that you will restrain me physically if I cannot control myself." 

"What's the quarrel?" d'Artagnan asked artlessly. 

Athos threw the reins over his horse's head and mounted, stepping his horse around to face d'Artagnan.  "This lot preys on youth.  Gender does not matter so long as their victim is attractive and innocent.  I stumbled upon them quite by accident, at their sport, one bright, sunny afternoon during a house party.  Fortunately they were all unarmed at the time, or I would have killed the lot of them.  And very likely hung for it, since they're all nobles.  As it was, I found it necessary to inform the Duc de Vallière that the Marquis de la Arceneau - the man you just met - had exquisite taste in art and he should visit the Chateau Arceneau as soon as he could fit it into his schedule. They were out of business for awhile, but since they're all together here, I must assume they have found new headquarters."   

Aramis whistled.  "You knew the Duc de Vallière well enough to send him hunting prey like Arceneau?"  Even Aramis knew _that_ name.  

"It was a long time ago."  Athos sat his dancing horse like a statue.

"Three years is not _that_ long."

"It was a lifetime." 

"And we're riding away?" d'Artagnan did not mount up.  Athos' delivery of more than one parsed sentence at a time had shocked him almost as much the revelation.

"You would be a perfect play toy for them, get on your horse now."  There was tight anger in the voice as  Athos reined his horse between d'Artagnan and the inn.  "You will not accompany us to Domenico's either.  I do not want you in their hands should something go wrong." 

"I am not _innocent_ and I'm perfectly capable of defending myself."

"I'm well aware of that, but your face alone tells me you are inexperienced in these matters.  We all echo your disgust, but such things cannot be handled with brute force, and you do not have the years necessary to have learned weaponry diplomacy."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means you are too young to be exposed to such depravity.  Now mount up."  Athos urged his horse forward and into a trot without looking back.

Aramis, who had not yet mounted either, took d'Artagnan by the elbow.  "Do as he says, no need to discuss this in the middle of the street."

d'Artagnan, tender mouth a slash of tight lips across his face, swung into the saddle heedless of the pain in his side. 

Aramis mounted as well, moving to d'Artagnan's left, as Porthos flanked him on the right. 

d'Artagnan, pointing his gaze straight ahead, said nothing more.  Irritating as it was to be treated like a child, it was equally annoyingly pleasant to realize he had friends who cared enough to extend their protection - whether or not he needed it. 

They took rooms at an inn well off the main thoroughfare, situated on the edge of town a forty-minute ride from the wharf.   Since they would have a fifth with them for the night, Athos bespoke three rooms, requesting adjoining ones with passage between if possible, above the ground floor and near a stairway.

The host was obliging and set them up in the three rooms at the end on the back of the third floor, again overlooking the stable. 

A hostler had taken their horses this time, assuring them the beasts would be fed and rested and ready in time for the return trip to the harbor.  Athos made arrangements for replacement mounts and asked for directions to Domenico's before following his companions inside.

He stayed only long enough to dump his saddle bags in the middle room before disappearing again.  Aramis pointed d'Artagnan to the second bed in the middle room and insisted the still scowling youth allow him to tend to that aching side. 

Porthos went in search of Athos, heading - with an accuracy born of three years acquaintance - for the bit of groove at the property's border.  Athos would eschew the bottle at this particular moment, in order to have a clear head.  He tended toward much more rash behavior when under the influence and while _he_ might be steaming, the _comte_ would still be cool as a cucumber.

Porthos found his quarry leaning back against a split-rail fence; he did not mince words.  "I understand your concern, but I don't like leavin' 'im behind either."  The big man rested his own elbows on the fence, facing Athos, though he avoided challenging by turning his gaze out over the meadow the fence delineated.  "I dunno know nothin'  'bout this lot, but I know their kind and it'd be just up their alley to have sent someone after us and split up later, just in case we're stupid enough to leave d'Artagnan here alone.  The fact that he's with you makes him irresistible; never mind what 'e looks like."

"I know." 

"Good, 'cause I'd rather not argue about this.  I've seen what happens to the toys of people like that."

"I nearly ran him through right there, the minute his eyes lit on d'Artagnan.  Even in his rage he started to salivate."

"I saw." 

"I can't kill him."

"Know that too, but that don't stop you from makin' sure he can't hurt anyone else," Porthos said softly, sincerely, his own anger bubbling just below the surface.  "Just sayin'." 

Athos turned to face the meadow too, mirroring Porthos' pose.  "I'm sorry my old life has reared up to slap you three in the face.  I suppose I've grown lax in my wariness;  I lived in expectation of something like this for the first two years."

Porthos ignored the attempt to redirect the conversation.  "d'Artagnan'll be a distraction for both of you.  You're gonna have to trust that we can protect him and shut him out of your mind."

"I know," Athos repeated.  "And I do.  Trust you that is.  It's just ..."

"Bad timin', I know,"  Porthos echoed with a shrug.  "Nothin' like an early education though.  He won't be blindsided if he does run up against it in the future.  An trust me, I'm well aware some ain't necessarily victims.  There's them that get all hot and bothered by the attention of a marquis.  At least to begin with." 

"As usual, Porthos, you are a fount of wisdom."

"I have my moments.  How far'd the 'ostler say it was to the place?"

"An hour." Athos took measure of the sun's shadows.  "We should leave shortly."

"I'll get them.  You want I should bring anything down from your gear?"

"No, I left what I'll take in the stables.  Tell Aramis to bring his doctoring kit."

"Right."


	7. Chapter 7

Domineco's turned out to be a palatial estate north of the harbor, with its own water gate and dock visible from the southern arrival route where they had been following the coastline.  The road curved around to a gated front as well,  the baroque-style architecture of the chateau just visible through a stand of old, overgrown poplars.  The front gates stood wide open. 

"I don't like this one little bit.  That don't look like no fencin' salon."  Porthos steadied his horse with a pat as the gelding danced skittishly when a dog howled in the distance.  "It's my considered opinion we should turn around, collect our package, and head out of town tonight after all.  This is not a battle we should be fightin' with just the four of us." 

"There were at least a dozen at the hostelry," Athos observed. 

"Not insurmountable odds."  Aramis swung down from his horse to walk through the gates, listening as he took in the immaculately manicured grounds.  "I've got the first half dozen, the rest of you can take the remainder." 

"Considering the size of the house, there are likely to be more.  And if we fall, d'Artagnan will live long enough to regret it."

"Oh no, we're not _not_ doing this because of me." 

"They're coming," Aramis said, remounting with a leap.  "Decide now." 

It was agreed among them that at any point in time one individual felt overwhelmingly certain about something, their word was law.  Porthos invoked it.  "There isn't even a resemblance of a fair fight here, Athos," he said urgently, grabbing d'Artagnan's horse's bridle and turning them both.  "Executive decision.  We're not going in there. Move!"  He did not wait to see if the other two followed, nor did he let go d'Artagnan's bridle until both horses were moving swiftly in tandem back down the road. 

Within moments Porthos heard two more sets of pounding hooves, the whistle of a pistol ball, and several _more_ sets of pounding hooves.  He grabbed his own pistol and turned in the saddle, keeping between d'Artagnan and the slavering horde behind.  "No matter what happens, you keep riding!" he shouted.  "Don't slow up, don't look back, just keep riding and if we're not behind you when you get to town, go straight to the local constabulary."

d'Artagnan did not bother answering, just drew his own pistol and matched his horse's gait to Porthos' mount.  Athos and Aramis pulled up even. 

"Don't waste a shot!" Aramis yelled. 

"Aim to unseat!"

"What he means is aim to maim!"

There were seventeen, on fresh mounts, armed to the teeth and mob angry.

Aramis took out the front two, but the pack only swung around their fallen comrades in a manner suggesting this was not their first hunt on horseback.  They closed ranks again, surging forward with the speed of a horde of ravaging Huns. 

Athos and Aramis dropped back again behind Porthos and d'Artagnan.  Athos hauled out the musket he carried but rarely used and tossed it to Aramis, who caught it deftly and calmly shot a third directly between the eyes.  He was not the company's marksman by chance. 

Athos winged a fourth.  d'Artagnan, to the surprise of his companions, produced a second pistol and got a fifth, though the sixth shot missed.  Porthos' shot went wide as well and he slowed to hand over his second pistol to Aramis.  A sixth rider fell as a second round of shots whizzed past the musketeers and d'Artagnan.  

Eleven left.  Without warning, Porthos' banshee screech split the air like thunder as his horse reared into a turn and the pair were racing madly back the way they had just gone.

As if they'd worked out the maneuver ahead of time, and practiced until it was flawless, Athos and d'Artagnan spun back around to the left, Aramis around to the right, with Porthos charging straight down the middle of the road.

Horses whinnied, tree bark exploded, road dirt sprayed up around flying feet, leaves rained down as though a capricious autumn wind ripped them from their moorings as three musketeers and one avenging youth rode directly into the ranks of the remaining group.

Two more went down from sword thrusts; one to an eye, the other a body thrust that would likely result in a slow, painful death. d'Artagnan took two more as he slid from his horse.

And then it was a melee' in the middle of the road. 

Pistol butts and swords. 

Riderless horses spinning without direction. 

Thrust and parry.

Savage screams!

Advance!  Retreat!

Grunts and blows.

Deflect. Slash. Slice. 

Athos' sword flashed with the strength and purpose of an avenging angel.  Three more were disarmed and disabled in short order, a fourth fell with a broken neck.    

Another slumped pierced from opposite sides by Aramis and Porthos.  d'Artagnan staggered back from a glancing fist to the heart that swung him around, the momentum carrying him into the path of a masked man who dropped unconscious from a pistol butt to the face. 

The last one menacing d'Artagnan sagged clutching his neck from a thrust clean through.  For a moment he hung from Porthos' bent rapier like a toy with the stuffing pulled out, then sank to his knees as the musketeer yanked it out.  The corpse crumpled in a bloody heap. 

"Told ya we could take 'em," Aramis gasped, sinking to his own knees.  "Did we even ... stop to think ... this might be an ambush?"

Athos did a quick visual reconnaissance, saw no fatal wounds on his own people and dropped to his fundament on the verge, head hanging between his knees, chest heaving with the effort to breathe.  Porthos joined him, flopping back on the grass, and threw an arm over his eyes.

d'Artagnan stood alone in the middle of the carnage, bleeding from a cut lip, one eye already blackening spectacularly, left hand pressed tightly to his burning side.  "Is it always so ... quiet?"

"Not so quiet," Porthos grunted.  "That's the battle rush that fills up your ears so you don't hear nothin' but your own blood roarin'.  Trust me, there was pleny'a yellin' 'n screamin'."

"They're not all dead."  d'Artagnan turned in a slow circle.  "Four of us," he said on a choking gag and threw up.  He landed awkwardly on all fours as his knees buckled, and threw up again.  He could still crawl however, and he did so, tossing weapons wil-you-nil-you out of reach of anyone whose eyes were not staring sightlessly into the blue sky. 

No one tried to stop him, his companions knew from their own first battle experiences, to let him be. 

By the time he crawled back to Athos' side, d'Artagnan was trembling from head to toe.  "I don't know ... if I'll make it back."  He collapsed in a heap of tangled limbs. 

Athos lifted his head to whistle for his horse, only to realize the job hack he'd been riding was unlikely to come to his call.  He was not ready to get up however, and turned to look over d'Artagnan who had slumped again his knee. 

He laid a hand on the youth's shoulder, turning him over carefully.  "Out cold."  He straightened the tangled limbs, taking the opportunity to check for any unseen injury as well, grateful when his questing hands met no further broken bones, though he did turn up a few more bloody lacerations, and some very bruised knuckles. 

 Porthos lifted the arm over his eyes and sat up, putting fingers to lips to whistle for his mount.

Aramis came up leading all their horses.  "Not ours, they don't come when you call." 

"Oh.  Yeah, guess not."

"We should get back to town and report this." 

"We should take the rest of the horses as well, but I don't think we're up to it."  Athos was none to steady on his own feet as he rose, refusing Aramis' offer of a hand up since it looked like if he did, they'd both just topple over again. 

Aramis was sporting a shallow cut across the neck and a nick that was bleeding profusely on the outside left thigh.  His clothing likely hid as many bruises as Athos was beginning to feel on his own body.  Porthos' face was streaked with blood from a pistol ball crease down the left side of his head; he was also missing a boot.  It took both Athos and Aramis to get him to his feet. 

"How many fingers?" Athos asked, holding a hand up in front of Porthos' face.

Porthos grabbed to steady it, since the hand was shaking badly, and counted with his own fingers.  "Five," he growled, letting go to reach blindly for his horse. 

Athos guided Porthos' foot into the stirrup and at least one of them was mounted.  Only three to go.  He stood for a moment waiting for his own dizziness to pass before letting go the support of Porthos' stirrup and went in search of the missing boot.  It happened to be a pair Porthos was particularly fond of, over-the-knee with no cuff and ties at the back.  How he'd lost it was a mystery, but he would not be happy if they left without it. 

Athos wandered back up the road, toeing at bodies until he found it, gripped tight in a dead man's hands, the face marred by a broken nose and neck.  He had to pry it from the bloody fingers and wasn't sure if Porthos would want it after all, as bloody as the boot was. 

If it was fixable, Monsieur Valle would be able to restore it to wholeness again. 

"Found it," he reported, handing it up to Porthos who sat his horse in a dazed sort of stupor.

"Ahhhh, thought it was gone for good.  Thanks.  Athos, we need to get out of here.  There's those behind us we left in the road that may not all be dead either.  Any that aren't are likely to be stirrin' by now."

"We do.  Aramis?"

"Yeah, I know. But I don't think we're going to wake up d'Artagnan.  Looks like a bump on the head."

"Can you ride with him?"

""Probably."  Aramis collected their pistols d'Artagnan had retrieved and handed them out, then climbed aboard his horse while Athos hauled the limp body over his shoulder.  Between them, they managed to maneuver the sagging puppy up in front of Aramis where he could still hold the reins and keep an arm around the youth.

Porthos passed over a kerchief and Athos tied off Aramis' leg wound before gathering up the trailing reins of d'Artagan's well-mannered nag.  He put a boot into the stirrup attached to his own saddle and with his last bit of strength, flung himself onto his horse.  It was a fortunate thing his foot caught in the stirrup or he might have gone right over the other side. 

The three o'clock meeting had taken all of fifteen minutes.  Ostensibly riding, though for the most part the horses took the initiative, they headed back into Calais.


	8. Chapter 8

 

The stable boy who came to take the horses went round-eyed and slack-jawed at the first sight of them.  "Cor," he said dazedly, "have the Englisher's attacked then?  Is he dead?" he demanded, pointing at d'Artagnan. 

"No." The singular response was meant to ward off further questions.   "We are, however, in need of a physician."  Athos slid off his horse, punishing every aching muscle and bone in his body, snatching at the youngster's shoulder when the child retreated as speedily as he advanced.  He slapped the reins in the boy's hand and fished for bribing currency.  "Have someone else tend the horses and you run get a doctor."  Aramis was in no shape to tend to all of them, and Athos was beginning to worry d'Artagnan was hurt worse than they thought. 

Porthos might be too from the way he listed, unmoving in the saddle.  Athos went first to help him down, made sure he could stand on his own, and went to take d'Artagnan from Aramis.  The Gascon was of slight build and not particularly heavy, though tall.  Athos stumbled beneath the extra weight, and then Aramis was beside him sharing the load. 

"This is my fault.  I should have paid attention to the look I got when I asked for directions to Domenico's. Christ, I haven't been this stupid in a long time.  I should never have let that idiot goad me into responding.  He's always been a coward."

Aramis grunted.  "I hope he's among the dead." 

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"  Aramis shuffled d'Artagnan's feet into a better hold as Athos backed through the inn door.  "Having a life before you came to the Musketeers?  Becoming a Musketeer?  Being born?"

"Consider it a blanket apology."  They were at the first set of stairs. 

"Oh get over yourself.  You didn't create that monster, and I'd give you a pat on the back if my hands weren't full, for dragging that slimy son of a bitch out of the shadows so we could deal with him."

Athos staggered over the top step, caught a boot heel on the carpet runner at the top of the stairs and slumped against the wall in effort to stay on his feet.  He only barely managed it and d'Artagnan began to slide relentlessly from his hold.  The leather of his jacket was slippery and fit so closely it offered no purchase.  "I'm losing him."

Aramis grabbed around the knees and shoved.  Athos got his arms back around the narrow chest and eventually, together, they managed to get d'Artagnan down the hall, up the next set of doubling back stairs, into the room and onto a bed. 

Aramis went to his knees beside the bed, pulling back eyelids one at a time to check pupils.  "Nothing blown, it can't be too bad."

 "I'll go get Porthos while you see if you can bring him around."  Athos stumbled back to the door, dragging his extremely painful right foot.  "Should be a doctor on the way shortly." 

He opened the door and got punched in the eye by a fist in the process of knocking. 

"Monsieur! I am so sorry!  So sorry!" the host gabbled, as wide-eyed as the stable boy who was without a doubt his son.  "I will bring cold cloths for the eye, but first, this one too is injured," he said, putting a hand to the door jamb to steady himself under the weight of the big musketeer he had helped up the stairs.

Athos caught Porthos as he stumbled into the room, catching an elbow to the side of the head as Porthos flailed to keep his balance.  Nevertheless, he threw an arm around Porthos and guided him to the bed before turning back to the nervous innkeeper.

"I do not want trouble here," the man said, twisting at the snowy apron he wore over a prosperous suit of clothing.  His boots were of excellent quality as well.

"We are King's Musketeers." Athos straightened as best his could, peering at the man though the eye not rapidly swelling shut.  "There will be no trouble here, but you must summon the watch.  We need to make a report and none of us are capable at the moment, of going to them.  Unfortunately, we will also be leaving before the tide turns, have our own horses saddled and ready for us at dusk."

"King's Musketeers!  Oui, monsieur, oui.  Jake has already gone for the doctor.  I'll bring that cloth right up."

"Make it two, there is another eye injury among us."

"RIght away." The host backed out, clutching the generous inducement discreetly placed in his hand. 

Athos slid down the door to sit on the floor.  "I'll get the doctoring kit as soon as I catch my breath."  A stitch low on the right side of his back was biting harshly.  He reached around to run his fingers over it gingerly, swallowing the gasp his explorations manifested.

Aramis turned his head sharply, his ear tuned to the slightest indication of pain.  "Something broken?"

"Probably just bruised."  Athos kept his breathing shallow until the pain subsided, then pushed up very carefully from the floor.  He found the bag, delivered it to Aramis, and sat down beside Porthos. 

"How many fingers," he asked again, holding up a hand that only trembled a little with fatigue now.  How he was going to get them on their feet, pick up the priest, and get them out of Calais in the next two hours was a mystery yet to be solved. 

Porthos blinked a few times.  "Three," he said with conviction.  "M'head's not quite so swimmy anymore." 

Athos, grimacing, pressed on the shoulder attempting to rise.  "You do not need to get up.  There's plenty of beds.  When the doctor's seen to everyone, we'll get cleaned up and rest a bit before we have to leave."

"Come," he called in response to the knock on the door.  The innkeeper entered with a bowl of chipped ice, several cloths and the doctor, who took one look at the carnage in the room and went immediately to d'Artagnan. 

"I am Pelletier.  Where is the wound?"

Athos rose to take the ice and cloths and sent the host scurrying for hot water, towels, and mugs for everybody.  They were all going to need Aramis' headache concoction.

Aramis had finally put his hands on the smelling salts.  "No egregious external wound, but there's a substantial swelling just behind the right ear."  He turned d'Artagnan's chin gently, sliding his fingers over the bump and parting the hair.  I think the blood is from here."  He moved his fingers further, revealing a shallow, bloody cut closer to the lower edge of the occipital.

"Have you tried the salts?"

"Not yet."

"Do so."  Pelletier slipped his own fingers over the swelling, examining the shape carefully.  "There is no indentation.  Was there vomiting immediately after the injury?"

"Uh, yes, actually," Aramis supplied.  "I didn't think of that." 

"Very likely concussion then.  Ahhhhh, he is coming around.  This does not look like it needs stitches.  I will clean it before I leave.  Is he otherwise injured?"

"Just some cuts and bruises.  Porthos was creased by a musket ball, and Athos," Aramis glanced around, "wherever he disappeared to, might have cracked or broken some ribs."

"Porthos is fine," Porthos said clearly. 

"Porthos' head might need stitches.  Athos doesn't look too bloody, but don't let him tell you he's fine either."

"And you.  I should look at your neck." Pelletier's gaze dropped to the bloody kerchief tied around Aramis' leg.  "Is there a ball still in there?"

"No, that's just a slight poke, it's stopped bleeding already, though it will probably start again when I pull off the material." Aramis bent over d'Artagnan.  "Hey there.  How's the head?"

"Hurts," d'Artagnan muttered, his good eye flying open as he tried to squeeze both closed.  "Ow."  A bloody hand, the skin on every knuckle torn and ragged, rose to flutter around his swollen shut eye, not quite touching.  "Where are we?  Did I pass out?"

"Back at the inn and yes, you were out for awhile, but you took a pretty hard knock on the head."  Aramis caught the fluttering hand, lowering it back to the bed. 

d'Artagnan relaxed a little.  "Athos?  Porthos?"

"Porthos took a ball to the head, only place it couldn't hurt him.  Athos looks like he's limping, a sprain at least, maybe some cracked ribs as well."

"You?" d'Artagnan asked, opening his eye again to inspect Aramis. 

"Probably the least injured of the lot." Aramis grinned.  "You're the worst.  I was beginning to worry." 

"I was ... out that long?"

"The entire trip back and then some.  This is Dr. Pelletier, Athos called in the big guns.  He's going to clean the cut on the back of your head while I go find our fearless leader and some of the ice he disappeared with for your eye.  You might let him look at the bruise on your side as well.  All right?"

d'Artagnan nodded again.  If he thought he'd been in pain before, it was nothing compared to what he felt now.  His face ached, his split lip throbbed, as did his fingers, but those were small annoyances compared to the pounding of his head.  When the doctor moved his head only slightly, and very carefully for better access to the cut in his hair, he thought he was going to throw up again. 

"Breathe through your nose," Pelletier suggested, soaking a cloth in spirits.  "And try to stay still." 

He was efficient, quick and professional with each of them in turn, stitching up Porthos' head, cleaning and binding Aramis' neck, putting a couple of stitches in the leg wound since they would shortly be riding again, and when Aramis tracked Athos down - asleep in the next room - putting him in a sort of corset-like contraption to strap up two broken ribs, and taped up the sprained ankle.

Pelletier told them to keep d'Artagnan awake, which Aramis already knew, and to keep ice on the black eyes, gathered up his supplies and left with their thanks echoing in his ears.  He refused payment, saying it was his duty to tend any King's Musketeers who came within his purview. 

The local constabulary had come and gone, also slightly overawed to be taking statements from a company of King's Musketeers, bowing and scraping so much even Porthos, who appreciated a bit of hero worship occasionally, had had enough by the time Athos escorted them to the door, closing it firmly behind them.

They were alone, finally, Aramis and Porthos sharing one bed, Athos and d'Artagnan on the other, all but Porthos, who slept, staring at the ceiling.

"So, still want to be a Musketeer?" Athos asked quietly, turning his head to look at the youth lying motionless beside him. 

d'Artagnan produced a sort of half snort, the effort making him groan.  "Initiated?" 

"I think we can call you initiated after today.  You acquitted yourself extremely well."  Athos was silent for a moment.  "One or more of us might have sustained far more serious injuries than we did if you hadn't been with us." 

"Hear, hear," Aramis seconded softly.

d'Artagnan's grin pulled at his swollen lip. 

"By the way, I forgot to tell you, I sent a note to Tréville last night, asking him to have your father's body sent home for burial."  Athos moved to put an arm under his head, thought better of it and returned the arm carefully to the bed.  "When we can take some leave, we will go with you if you wish to have a service for him." 

In that same note he'd sent along d'Artagnan's account of the female assassin and her description, assuring the captain that the youth returning with them to Paris to give his personal account was not guilty of the murder he'd been charged with.

d'Artagnan turned his head very slowly.  "You would go all the way to Gascony?" 

"If you intend to become a Musketeer, then you are one of us.  We are more than a unit of soldiers, d'Artagnan.  We are brothers, bonded not by the blood that flows in our veins, but the blood that frequently flows on one another's behalf.  And perhaps more strongly because of it.  We stand together on all things, great or small."

"But you hardly even know me!"

"Like calls to like, isn't that how you say it, Aramis?"

"It's an alchemist's term," Aramis said nearly inaudibly, "but it describes much in life.  And yes, I have used those words to describe us.  Some things are instinctively known.  Whether God, or fate, or the vagaries of life put you in our path, I can't say, but I know beyond a shadow of a doubt you are meant to be part of this brotherhood we've forged." 

"It may take some time to earn your commission, but I promise you, it will eventually happen."  Athos shoved his feet over the side of the bed and sat up slowly.  "How's the head?  Do you think you can ride?  The sun's setting, we need to be leaving shortly.  What about Porthos?" he asked Aramis, who was sliding to the foot of the bed to sit up too.

"We'll ride double and string the horses if necessary."  Aramis prodded a large hairy toe.  "Nap time's over, my friend.  We have to go." 

Porthos opened bleary eyes, noted the darkening of the room as the sun sank lower on the horizon and sat up, blinking in the dim light.  "We leavin' now?"

"Can you ride?"

"'Course I can ride."  He set his fingers to exploring the bald patch on the side of his head.  "Maybe I should shave it all off."  He yawned and stretched before getting to his feet. 

"How many fingers?" Athos asked.

"None.  And that's the last time I'm answerin' that question.  I'm fine.  How's the puppy?"

"Still in the room." d'Artagnan was inching his way to the side of the bed too.  "Keep calling me a puppy and I'll piddle in your bed some day while you're out on patrol."

Aramis glanced over his shoulder in surprise.  "The puppy has teeth!"

"I can find your bed too," the puppy growled, holding his head as he sat up very very carefully. 

"Why don't you just lie back down until we have everything set.  I'll come for you when we're ready to leave."  It wasn't really a question, Aramis was easing the youth back down before d'Artagnan could object.  "Keep the ice on that eye, it is making a difference with the swelling." 

d'Artagnan lifted the cold, damp cloth filled with melting ice back to his eye without complaint, though even that light pressure increased the throbbing in his splitting head. 

They did not travel with trunks and bandboxes, but there were cloaks to gather up, hats to retrieve, swords to belt back on, daggers to sort out and firearms to be reloaded.  It took a few minutes, but only a few, and in short order the Inseparables were trooping down the stairs to the stable yard, loading saddle bags and adjusting gear on their saddled horses, all of them keeping a weather eye out for unusual shadows or lurking presences the mind often registered before the eye identified. 

Porthos climbed, rather than swung into the saddle, his one concession to the disorientation that still had his head floating a bit.  When the ground tilted slightly, he closed his eyes, breathed deeply through his nose as he'd heard the doctor tell d'Artagnan and hammered his equilibrium securely back into place when the world righted again.  He did not look at Aramis, who he knew was watching him like a hawk, just gathered up his lax reins and walked his horse ten steps into the darkness.  That was better, there were less details his eyes needed to make out and therefore less of an ache behind them.  He would manage until they stopped for the night. 

Athos had gone up to collect d'Artagnan.  The puppy was walking mostly on his own, albeit unsteadily, when they came out the back door.

_Should be helpin' get him on the horse_ , Porthos thought, rather muzzily, starting his horse back toward the courtyard, but then they had d'Artagnan up behind Aramis and Athos was wrapping the youngster's arms around their healer, adjuring him to hold on lest he be bounced off and Aramis was twisting around to remind him not to fall asleep.  

And then they were flanking Porthos, Athos on one side with the leading reins for d'Artagnan and the priest's horses, Aramis with his drooping human cargo on the other.

The cool of the night closed around them swallowing all but the sounds of their horses hooves as they moved into a trot and then a smoother canter.  Porthos gritted his teeth and jammed his feet deeper into the stirrups, wondering how in the world d'Artagnan was managing. 

Aramis was praying silently that they had dealt the Domenico crew such a blow that it would take them longer than this night to gather themselves together again and make another concerted assault.  There was no way the four of them could fend off another attack of such magnitude.

Athos was praying also, but he was thanking a benevolent God he had never really believed in for watching over fools and children since they numbered both in their lot. 


	9. Chapter 9

The afterglow of the sunset turned the harbor channel mist a very pale pink in the gloaming.  Flambeaux affixed to every pier and piling brightened the deepening dusk of twilight and lit the harbor nearly as bright as day as they made their way slowly down to the docks.   They did not think they'd been followed, but even this late in the day, the streets had been thronged with merchants and seamen still going about their business.  Athos had taken the most circuitous route possible, but there was little to reason to visit Calais if you were not on business and most business ended up at the wharf.  It would be a simple thing to station someone invisible at the docks. 

Four ships lay at anchor offloading goods, two more, riding low in the water, were negotiating the deep channel.  The Musketeers made for the pier at the south end of the first wharf, a galleon, lightly armed, flying a British flag. 

"Let's hope this doesn't take all night."  Athos dismounted,  tugging his hat brim lower in an attempt to shadow his black eye.  The ice had actually done its job since the bruising had been accidental rather than deliberate and he could open it slightly, though it ached like the devil.   But then, there was not much of his body that did not ache like the devil.  "Keep to the shadows as much as possible.  d'Artagnan, wake up."  He patted the youngster's knee as he limped past, favoring his right ankle.   

"M'wake," d'Artagnan mumbled, though he was slumped against Aramis' back. 

Porthos, the cool of the evening having revived him somewhat, circled his horse and backed up beside Aramis so one faced out while the other faced in.  "How ya holdin' up?" he asked d'Artagnan, his gaze scanning the gloom between buildings where the light of the flambeaux did not reach. 

"Better than an hour ago."  d'Artagnan straightened.  "How's _your_ head?"

"Still got it at least.  Ain't rattlin' s'much anymore either.  Some shiner you got there.  Remember what happened?"

"No." d'Artagnan touched his eye lightly . "I remember shooting someone, everything after that is pretty much a blur."

"That's not unusual," Aramis put in, "especially in  a first battle.  I _assume_ this was your first pitched battle?"

"Yes."

"Wouldn'a known it from your actions.  You waded right into the middle of it like you was God's right arm."  Porthos had made sure to keep near the youth, though he would have been hard-pressed to come to his aid had d'Artagnan needed it. 

Aramis chuckled.  "I must admit I was impressed as well."

"With me?"

"Yes, with you."  Aramis glanced over his shoulder.  "That surprises you?"

"That you were impressed?  Yes."

"Why?"

"It was kill or be killed; I wasn't doing anything special, just trying to stay alive and keep my feet under me."

"Both of which you managed extremely well." 

"Athos said to me ..." d'Artagnan put a hand to his aching head.  "Was it only three days ago we met and went haring off on that wild ride, fought Gaudet's camp and cleared Athos' name?"

"Four," Porthos supplied. 

"Only four days.  Anyway, he said to me that he remembered the names of the men he killed.  I think I've killed half a dozen men at least, in the last five days, and the only name I know was Gaudet."

"This bothers you?" Aramis asked, shading his voice to comfort.

"I ..." d'Artagnan wavered.  "I don't know," he said finally. 

"The law is clear on what happened today, d'Artagnan.  We were attacked, we defended ourselves."

"I know ... but ... it happened so fast and I remember so little ... and it just seems  ... I don't know," he repeated, "I don't know how to feel.  Angry? Sad? Horrified?"

"Likely your feelin' all those things."  Porthos wasn't guessing. " Starin' in the face of your own mortality's never a pretty sight, but you hopped off your horse without a second thought."

"Pretty sure I was dragged off my horse," d'Artagnan muttered. 

"You were not." Porthos' diction sharpened.  "I watched you take out two men coming off that horse, caught one in the face, the other in the knees.  Second one gave you that shiner before his knees stopped your boot. He went down like a dropped boulder.  You've got one mean kick for a puppy."

d'Artagnan's face couldn't decide whether it should scowl or grin, it tried to do both at the same time and wound up hurting. 

"No one had to come to your rescue, d'Artagnan."  Porthos wasn't counting the last man he'd skewered;  the puppy would have taken him eventually, it had just been quicker and easier to get rid of the man himself.  "Even Athos took note and he ain't particularly forthcoming with praise."  The enunciation was eliding again.

"He's got him." Aramis was facing the docks.

"The priest?  Already?  Didn't expect it to go that fast."  Porthos did not turn to look.

"Traveling light apparently.  Looks like he's got a pair of saddle bags and a shoulder bag he's wearing.  Dressed to ride too.  And he's belting on a sword.  I'm impressed already."

"Ahhh," d'Artagnan sighed, "I knew there had to be a catch.  You must be easily impressed."

Aramis smacked the puppy's knee.  "That's for being a saucebox."

"Who's being a saucebox?" Athos inquired as he led their *package* up to the mounted Musketeers.  "Gentlemen, this is Father Grandier.  Porthos," Athos indicated each in turn, "Aramis and d'Artagnan."

The man was neither tall nor short, fat nor skinny, old nor young. His one distinctive feature was a pair of heavy beetling brows that overshadowed deep-set eyes, the color of which could not be determined in the dancing light of the flambeaux.  He bowed to each of them in turn, offering a smile that matched the nose - slightly crooked - and repeated each of their names.  "Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan.  Do you ride double so that I may have a mount?"  Those eyebrows were lifted with frank curiosity as he took in their disheveled appearances. 

"There are mounts for everyone, d'Artagnan is having some difficulty seeing in the dark with one eye swollen shut," Athos responded taking the reins Porthos handed down.  He sorted the pairs and handed one set to the priest.  "Do you need a hand mounting?"

"Oh no." Father Grandier tossed his saddlebags competently over the horse and affixed them to the back of the saddle.  He did not ask questions, just drew his horse around by the reins, mounted agilely and waited for instructions.

"You're probably wondering why your escort," Athos purposely did use the term _guards,_ "is looking rather worse for wear.  And why we are subjecting you to a night ride you would likely rather not undertake immediately after making the crossing."  He mounted as well and moved out at a walk.  "We were involved in a bit of a contretemps this afternoon which is both why we are a bit unkempt and riding out tonight."

"Ahhh." Grandier bowed from the saddle.  "Then I must expect you got the best of whomever was so bold as to attack the King's Musketeers and by extrapolation, assume that I am as safe with you as if I were in my own home."

"Your safety is our utmost concern, Father." 

"Oh do call me Grandier if you like, I'm a priest by vocation only, not avocation.  No need for pretense among us.  Richelieu has arranged my _safe_ passage for his own nefarious purposes, but he will not get satisfaction this time."

"Then you are no friend of the cardinal?" Aramis queried.

"No, no, he is no friend of mine.  We knew one another of old; went to seminary together, then served at the same time in  Luçon.  I do not know why he bothers with such a small fish as I; I am no competition for him.  He is First Minister of France and I only a lowly cleric in a provincial backwater."

"Forgive me, Father, but the Luçon diocese is hardly a provincial backwater."  Aramis knew his dioceses like he knew his catechism.

"Yes, but I serve now in Loudon.  Luçon was some years ago." Grandier, slouching comfortably in the saddle, glanced over at Aramis.  "You have thoughts, because I am collected from England like a package and brought to Paris, that I am connected to the cardinal in some way?" 

"The information we were given merely noted that you had influential friends," Athos stated.  "My apologies; we wrongly assumed it was the cardinal." 

Grandier laughed heartily.  "No no, it is not the cardinal, I assure you."

"And his nefarious purpose?" Athos asked candidly.  

"He seeks to lay a charge of witchcraft at my door."

Three heads turned at this.  Only d'Artagnan, slumped against Aramis' back again, did not react

"So far he has not been able to manufacture enough evidence against me.  It is curious that he sends Musketeers instead of his Red Guard, though.  Perhaps he does not believe his own guard trustworthy enough not to fall under my spell."  Grandier met their speculative gazes with another laugh.  "You are wondering, too, how it came to be that I have such a reputation with women, yes?" 

"Well, now that you mention it," Aramis responded to the genuine humor in the laughter with a chuckle, "yes, we are."

"You must forgive him,  Father, he is so _gauche_ because he has something of a reputation himself,"  Athos, a pace ahead of the rest, said over his shoulder. 

"Of course, but he comes by his naturally.  He has the looks and charm together. There are those who say I have the looks," the priest shrugged lightly, "it is only the charm that makes them think so, but it has been a most faithful and true companion."  Grandier laughed again, an infectious sound that woke the dozing d'Artagnan.  "Your comrade, Monsieur Aramis, he does not look well."

"d'Artagnan?"

"It will pass."

"What will pass?"  Aramis twisted again, keeping hold of the youngster's knee behind him.  "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, just a little dizzy again.  It will pass," d'Artagnan repeated. 

"It does not look like a 'passing' kind of thing," the priest observed.  "You would know this look, I think, Monsuier Aramis, if you could see it."

"It's true, he don't look so good," Porthos seconded.

"Athos, stop.  Porthos, grab him so he doesn't tumble off when I dismount." 

Porthos jostled close enough to grab d'Artagnan by the back of his jacket while Aramis swung down on the opposite side.  "Move up so you're in front of me."  He prodded d'Artagnan into the saddle, not an easy thing as it turned out, but with some maneuvering, and despite the Gascon's protests that he was perfectly fine, Aramis, with a hand from Porthos, mounted behind him just as d'Artagnan passed out.

Aramis swore softly.  "Apologies, Father," he murmured, checking pulse and respiration.  The pulse was hard and fast, respiration shallow and fast as well. 

"Ah no need on my account.  And God knows your heart, my son.  But if the young one is so badly injured, should we not seek shelter where he may be tended properly?"

"It would not be wise to remain in Calais."  Athos had stopped and turned in the saddle too. "How bad is it?  Do you want me to take him?"

Aramis grunted, shifting his unconscious burden to get a better purchase on the youth.  "Better he stays with me, I can at least monitor what's going on.  Fever's up again, and no wonder, the way we've dragged him around from pillar to post. With proper rest and decent meals, he'll likely recover quickly, but that's a few days off yet."

"If there is to be trouble, they will expect us to go directly to Paris.  We'll ride for Dunkirk tonight and swing down through Lillie and Valenciennes to Reims and across to Paris.  Objections?"

"Can we circumvent the chateau Domenico?"  Aramis asked.   

"If we leave the road and cut across country.  We can catch the road again the other side of Offekerque."

"That works."  Aramis urged his horse forward.

I hope you don't mind a bit of a delay, Father."

The priest shrugged again, his genial grin flashing.  "One never wishes to hurry to one's own trial."  Grandier moved in tandem with Aramis, keeping abreast as Porthos turned his horse on Aramis' other side and Athos moved out ahead of them.  "He was hit on the head?"

"More than once in the last few days," Aramis admitted.  "Couple of cracked ribs too." 

"And you are making him ride?" Grandier's look said everything.

"Outta options," Porthos stated.  "Can't stay, can't leave him behind."

"You could turn and fight."

"Done that already.  Left most of 'em fer dead, but that don't stop what's left from rounding up others of their ilk 'n coming after us again."

"But you are the King's Musketeers," Grandier tried again, "it is incomprehensible that you were attacked so savagely."

Athos was not so far ahead that the conversation excluded him.  "They did not attack the King's Musketeers, they came after me.  I was foolish enough to imagine there was yet honor among them, that outrage could be satisfied by merely crossing swords."

"You have loyal friends then, monsieur," Grandier observed.

"No, Father, I do not have loyal friends, I have brothers who stand beside me even in my personal battles.  For which I am very grateful."

Porthos, who'd slept through Athos' little speech to d'Artagnan, chuckled.  "Yep, even share a bit of blood by now, what we all we've shed between us." 

"True," Aramis agreed.  "I hate to break up this party, but can we pick up the pace a little?  Be best if we could cover as much ground as possible while the puppy's unconscious."

Grandier laughed outright.  "Ahhhhh to be that young again, with a clean slate, starting out without a care in the world beyond how to make a name for myself.  I'm am sure your puppy, he appreciates this nickname, yes?"

Porthos snorted.  "Oh yeah, absolutely.  Thrilled with it."

"He does not wear the pauldron of Louis?"

"He's still a baby musketeer."  Porthos grinned.  "He don't have a commission yet, though it's just a matter of time." 

Grandier inclined his head, amusement making his face appear fair indeed.  "Then by all means, we must insure that he has the opportunity to don a pauldron."

"By all means," Athos agreed, urging his horse into a canter as they reached the outskirts of Calais. 

The moon was cresting the treetops, it's full face lacing the road with dappled shadows by the time they left it.  The road followed the sweep of land edged by the North Sea, though it had been cut through the forest, rather than following directly on the coastline.  In many places, the forest's verge lay cheek by jowl with the dunes the sea's might rolled in with every storm, pushing sand deeper and deeper beneath the deciduous trees, often creating natural barricades as trees rotted and fell with age and nature's onslaught. 

Athos led them deeper into the woods, following game trails that took them in a wide arc around Dominico's, his internal compass keeping them steadily on course until they came back to the road many leagues beyond the deleterious estate.  On the road again, in the cool light of the moon, they could make much better time.  Before the face of their brilliant travel companion above crowned its nighttime peak, Athos unerringly guided them into an out-of-the-way inn yard. 

Father Grandier was first to dismount, as not a one of the musketeers were feeling particularly hearty. 

"Do you want me to take him?"  he asked of Aramis, nodding towards d'Artagnan, still slumped in front of Aramis.  He let his reins trail to the ground as he patted his horse.  "She's too tired to go anywhere on her own, she'll stand long enough for me to help."

Both Athos and Porthos made sliding dismounts at this offer and headed for Aramis, nearly colliding in their hurry.  Porthos jostled Athos out of the way, reaching to take d'Artagnan. 

"You're sure you're up to this?" Aramis asked, sliding from his own horse.

"Better'n you 'n Athos draggin' him between the pair of you.  I can at least make it inside."

"Then I will see to the horses," Grandier offered.  "I give you my word I will not attempt to escape.  This will be my first time in Paris and my friends have contrived an invitation to one of  Madame la Marquise's famous salons.  I'm am looking forward to it immensely. I hear the playwright Molière attends.  I would have his advice on how best to vindicate myself with the cardinal."

"A worthy pen to emulate."  Athos tipped his hat in Grandier's direction but kept his own reins, though he let the man collect Porthos' and Aramis' horses.  "However, I would be derelict in my duties if I allowed a guest to take on all of our work.  I will accompany you."

"A diplomat through and through, my lord." Grandier bowed.

Athos glanced at him peculiarly, though he kept the frown off his face.

"Ahhh," the priest said, noting the look, "you probably do not remember me, but we attended the same house party, some time past, in the Vendee.  You did not stay long, but you participated in a sort of round robin fencing tournament while you were there, beating all and sundry rather handily."

Athos stood very still for a moment.  "Then you will remember the Marquis  de la Arceneau."  That had been the same house party at which he'd come upon the cadre at their sport while out riding.  They'd chosen a secluded glade deep in the forest.  Athos had only gone to investigate because the raucous laughter had seemed so out of place in the stillness of the old forest grove.  The child he had rescued had been a pretty household maid. 

And he did remember Grandier.  The priest had been the courtier of an elderly _comtesse,_ fetching and carrying for her like an obedient errand boy.  He'd also been a lively part of the slightly risqué banter those parties had been known for.     

"Oh.  Indeed."  Grandier cocked his head inquiringly. 

Aramis and Porthos were trudging for the front door of the inn, d'Artagnan cradled like a child in Porthos' arms.

"That is who we avoid taking the long way home."  Athos clucked his horse forward, tugging the leading rein for d'Artagnan's as he headed for the stables around back.

"Ahhhhhhhh." Grandier towed his three along after.  "That puts a whole new light on things."

"Doesn't it just," Athos muttered on a sigh.  "Let's hope they were too battered to attempt to follow."

"I imagine they are in no better shape than your quartet."

"There were far more of them and rage will drive a man to unaccountable things."

"This is true.  I will attend to this matter in my evening prayers."

Athos twitched back a smile as the aside had been offered with a perfectly straight face.  He'd seen the twinkle though, in the eyes he saw now as they walked their horses into the lantern-lit barn, that were a deep changeable hazel; right now they reflected the chestnut color of the horse nearest the man.  "Our thanks for the effort, Father."

"You will forgive my arrogance in this department, my lord, as I am sure you will understand." Grandier bowed his head again, the twinkle brightening when he returned his gaze to Athos.  "Though I do not have a calling for the collar, I am still on good terms with the Master.  I will make sure to put in a good word for your young companion as well."

Athos inclined his head in return, allowing the smile to bloom slowly.  "My thanks, Father, truly.  And I do understand.  Aramis shares many similar traits."

"Ahhh," Grandier said again, "I thought as much.  It is a pleasure to be in your company.  I will make sure to inform your captain of my good will, and bad mouth you to His Worship, the Cardinal Richilieu."

"I am particularly pleased we have been weighed and not found wanting," Athos replied sincerely.   

The cleric, being well versed in caring for horses, was as quick and efficient as Athos and in very short order the animals were curried, fed and tucked in for the night. 

"Would you care for a walk before we go in?" Athos asked, indicating a moonlit path behind the inn.  "You hardly had time to leave your sea legs behind."

"No no, I'm good.  But I would appreciate a bite to eat before we turn in.  I'm not a good sailor and did not eat on the ship."

"You should have said something." Athos held open the back door for the priest to precede him.  "We could have fed you at least, not grandly, but the inn we left did send food with us.  I am sorry for our poor hospitality."

"Do not be, you were busy with other things and I could have easily made a request.  It is just that I do not sleep well on an empty stomach."

"Nonetheless, I apologize for my abstraction."

The host was hurrying towards them, wringing his hands.  "I am so sorry, I was not expecting more guests at this hour, there is only one room in readi--"

Athos lifted a hand and the flow stopped mid-word.  "We'd be sleeping on the forest floor else, we're fine with one room."

"But but but," the little man stuttered, "you are King's Musketeers!  I would not have it bruited about that my hospitality is lacking, good sir!"

"Then there is no problem, as we will be sure to sing your praises, _monsieur_.  May we know in which room you have placed us so that we can make our way there?  And, if it would not be too much trouble, if you would send up a light repast?  Please do not go to the trouble of waking your kitchen help, we do not need a four-course meal."

"That will be no problem at all.  There is always prepared food in the larder for hungry travelers.  I will put together a tray and bring it myself.  There are five of you then?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Your companions asked for an end room," the innkeeper bobbed his head, "it was, fortunately, the only one prepared that is not occupied.  Up the stairs on your left, _monsieur_."  The man was still wringing his hands.  "I can ready another room quickly, though, it is not right, Musketeers sleeping on the floor in my inn!"

Athos was done with the man.

"Come now, my good man." Grandier took the innkeeper by the arm and drew him down the hall after Athos.  "These are seasoned campaigners, no need to worry, to have a roof over their heads is a blessing.  Though should someone come looking for five bedraggled travelers while we are here, or after we have gone, it would be well if you make the small lie and say you have not seen us.  I will ask God to overlook it this time."  The priest winked audaciously, casting the man a brilliant smile.  "Now if you could get us that food, I would be personally grateful."

He steered the innkeeper toward the dark kitchen.  "A loaf of that delicious smelling bread would be just the thing.  Smart of you to bake it last thing at night.  Maybe a little butter if you have it yet today and some jam?  We could easily make do with just that tonight.  You are kindness itself, sir." 

Athos stood at the top of the stairs watching with a bemused half smile.  "It's definitely a gift, Father."

Grandier's smile softened.  "It is, it is, but it is a gift with a price as well." He laughed then and took Athos by the arm as he topped the stairs.  "Come, you are as weary as your comrades.  There is a bible in my saddle bags, I will swear on it that I will not try to escape and you will allow me to take the first watch, yes?"

"No, but please understand it is not because I believe you lacking in candor, Father.  I have sworn an oath already, to carry out my duties to the best of my abilities.  Yes, we are all weary; it has been a very long day.  But I am not yet insensible and until I am, I will do my duty."

"Then I will keep you company, as I am sure you will take the first watch yourself.  Do you play cards?"

"I do, but not for money.  Porthos has turned us all into profligates, teaching us to cheat."

"Has he now?"  Grandier rubbed his hands together, looking vastly pleased.  "Do you think he would teach me if I asked?"

"I suspect he would brag about teaching a priest to cheat for the rest of his life, Father.  Fortunately, he's perfectly capable of discretion, I'm sure he won't name names."

"Wouldn't matter if he did, I doubt we travel in the same circles."

Athos was still chuckling as he opened the door to their room.  Which brought both dark heads turning toward him.  Porthos' from by the window, Aramis' over his shoulder where he sat on the bed beside the puppy.

Aramis' head swiveled to the priest, who followed Athos in and closed the door behind himself. 

"Where would like me to put these?" Grandier asked swinging Porthos' and Aramis' saddle bags off his shoulder.

"What have you done with our leader?  This cannot be our Athos, we can barely raise a smile on a good day, much less elicit traces of vocal humor!"

"This is a sad thing indeed, if it is true, _Monsieur_ Athos!  You are too young to have given up laughter.  Do you not know your Proverbs?  A merry heart doeth good like a medicine!" 

Athos ignored them, though his smile lingered at their good-natured teasing.  "How is he?" Athos moved to the foot of the bed where Porthos had laid d'Artagnan. 

Aramis lifted a shoulder in an odd kind of shrug.  "Stubbornly unconscious." 

"Do we need to get another doctor?"

"Maybe, if he doesn't come around soon."

"Have you tried the smelling salts again?"

"Uh, yes." Aramis held up the hartshorn. "I did.  No response."

Grandier joined Athos.  "Perhaps his soul has wandered too far from his body and temporarily lost its way.  I will pray."

Athos sidestepped as though he might be struck by lightning.  "Pray?" he parroted.

But the priest was already on his knees, his hands resting lightly on d'Artagnan's booted ankles.  "Almighty and merciful Father, You who can number the hairs on this child's head, who knows his true name as well as his beginning and end, heal the hurts that have caused his spirit to flee and reunite body and soul that he may experience the true healing of mind and heart and body.  This we ask in these things in the name of  Mary the Mother of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.  Amen."

Three pairs of eyes turned to d'Artagnan as if the heads were turned by invisible hands.  Father Grandier remained kneeling at the foot of the bed. 

d'Artagnan lay still as a statue. 

"Oh ye of little faith," Grandier chastised when Athos shuffled his feet uncomfortably.  "God has many affairs to order.  He will get to us in time."

A muffled thud at the door heralded the landlord and Athos, mindful of another punch in the eye, stood well back as he opened the door.  The thud had been the innkeeper's heel; the man backed into the room with a large loaded tray, depositing it on a table flush against the hallway wall just as Athos heard a thin, scratchy voice behind them announce, "I gotta piss."

"Only natural after such a long sleep.  Here is Aramis to help you up."

"Chamber pot in the corner," the innkeep announced jovially and took himself back out the door.

Athos spun on a heel to find the priest, still on his knees, had moved around the end of the bed and was reaching for the hand d'Artagnan was attempting to raise. 

"You got to be kiddin' me," Porthos breathed, awestruck.

Aramis, perhaps even more agog than Porthos, shifted on the bed.  "You've got some powerful connections there, Father, avocation or not."  He slid an arm under d'Artagnan's shoulders. 

"One does not need to be a priest to commune with our heavenly father, despite what the church tells us," Grandier replied with the assurance of one who had had a long acquaintance with things unseen.  "But you are well aware of this, Aramis."

"Smelling salts," Athos muttered, though indistinctly, and then, "Heresy." 

"What?"  Aramis, whose ears were as sharp as any fox,  was not minded to let this small miracle go unacknowledged. 

"You well know one cannot peel away another's blindness," Grandier said gently.  "He must find his own way to a conclusion." He levered himself up using first the bed frame and then his knees.  "And yes, I know I sound like a Protestant.  I do not believe God cares from which side of the fence we worship, so long as we worship." 

"Better keep those opinions to yourself when you're in front of our sovereign and his queen if you wish your case to be fairly judged, Father." 

d'Artagnan was sliding a booted foot off the bed, intent on rising. 

Aramis grabbed a hand when d'Artagnan overbalanced endeavoring to stand.  He flung an arm around the youth's waist and pulled d'Artagnan's arm over his shoulders, canting a hip to balance them both.  "Steady on, it's only a few steps."

Athos pulled out a chair at the table and sank down, attempting to reconcile heart and mind.  Speaking of heresy, he wasn't sure he believed in God, and he certainly did not believe in miracles. 

A very few minutes later, d'Artagnan, blinking as though he possessed the second eyelid of a cat, found himself stripped to the buff for the second time in as many days and weighted down in a crucible of blankets and inadequate mattress.  His hands plucked fretfully at the edges of the blankets but his mind and body were still disconnected enough that he could not figure out how to shed the weight of them. 

"Too hot," he dredged up, just as Aramis sat down again on the side of the bed. 

The healer rose slightly, Porthos whipped off the top three layers, leaving only a thin sheet and blanket, and d'Artagnan immediately began to shiver.

"Can you sit up just for a few minutes.  Our host sent up some soup he had on the hob.  Told us when we came in that his wife makes it and its good enough to cure anything that ails you.  I've put it in a mug to make it easier, you can just drink it.  And then I have some mulled wine with herbs that will ease you headache and reduce the fever that started climbing again a few hours ago." 

"Head hurts."

"I know.  You can go back to sleep in a few minutes," Aramis cajoled, "just drink a little of this."  He tried putting the mug into d'Artagnan's hands and wrapping the fingers around it. 

"Tired."

"Come on, just taste it."

"You might try lending a hand here," Grandier murmured to Athos, having drifted back to the table as well.

"Why?  Aramis is much better at this than I am."

"Ahh, but does d'Artagnan view Aramis in quite the same way he does you?  Are you so involved in your own cogitations that you cannot at least make an attempt?"

Athos scowled.  "He's known me for two days - three," he corrected himself.  "And a quarter, I suppose."  He rose though, and crossed the room.  Porthos, hovering, made way for him. 

"Alright, enough.  d'Artagnan, you are going to drink this."  Aramis yielded his place and handed over the cup.  Athos put it back into d'Artagnan's hands and closed his warm hand around the gelid fingers, then slid an arm around the youth and raised him enough to guide the cup to his lips.  d'Artagnan drank - whether because he opened his mouth to protest, or the savory scent right under his nose did the trick, or because Athos told him he was going to, it did not matter to the elder musketeer. 

When the cup was empty, Aramis, lips twitching with silent humor, passed over the mulled wine as well.  "Don't stop now."

Athos shot the healer a narrow-eyed glare, but coaxed the wine down too and allowed d'Artagnan to sink back into the pillows Aramis had used to prop him.  "Better?"

"If I throw up ... you get to ... clean up," the youth slurred.

"Then you better not throw up." Athos touched the still swollen eye lightly.  "Would putting ice back on this help?" 

"No," d'Artagnan said clearly.  "Sleep."

"All right, sleep, but no traveling the astral plane this time."

"Whaa...at?"

"Nothing, never mind.  Go to sleep."

The dark eyes drifted closed, the bedclothes rose on a long, deep inhale, flattened with an equally expansive exhale then settled to a steady rhythm as sleep quickly smoothed the youthful features. 

"I got first watch."  Porthos broke a lengthy, vigilant silence.  "The rest of ya oughta bed down and get some rest.  Aramis will take the next watch."

Athos, before he could rise, found himself wrapped snuggly in his own cloak, lying beside d'Artagnan again. 

"Sleep." Porthos flicked a second blanket over the pair on the bed and turned away, licking his fingers to snuff out all but one of the candles.  "You too," he ordered Aramis. 

Father Grandier, hooting softly, grabbed a deck of cards from his saddle bags.  "We can watch in the hall."  He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "Athos said you'd teach me to cheat!" 


	10. Chapter 10

"I dunno, Father."  Porthos laid out his hand with a shake of his head - a seven, a five, a six and a three.  "Maybe Venituna just ain't your game.  Or maybe cheatin' just ain't your style."

Grandier shook his own head mournfully.  "I suspect one needs a penchant for sleight of hand in order to make this work properly."  He tossed his own cards on the table, three sixes and a four. 

Porthos, slouched in his chair, leaned forward to pick up the deck to reshuffle.

"Shouldn't you be waking Aramis by now to take over the watch?  Surely we've been at this for at least a couple of hours, there's not that much night left."

"Nah, if he's still sleeping it's because he needs it.  But you should get a few hours of sleep yourself." Porthos' hands stopped sluicing cards.  He sat up, sniffing as he stilled.  "Hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"Horse.  In distress.  Snuff the candle and wake the rest."  Porthos, rapier in his left hand, pistol in his right, was already sliding along the inner wall toward the nominally lighter square of window at their end of the hall. 

Fire!  It sashayed along the eaves of the stable like a line of ballet dancers, graceful in its lethal leaping symmetry.   

The inn itself was a huddle of mismatched additions in various styles of architecture, the original piece looking Norman with its round, two-story tower bulging off the front corner of the middle section.  The add-ons carried the provincial varying roof lines and high windows, all built around a central courtyard reached through a series of pointed arches.  The only continuity had been the use of the same stone, probably quarried nearby, and the gently sloping red slate roofs adorning each addition. 

The stables had been built of stone too, but the roof was thatched and would be entirely ablaze in a matter of minutes. 

Athos, limping, was shoving the tang of his sword belt into its spot as he came out of the room.  "What?"

Aramis and d'Artagnan, both pulling on clothes, followed practically on the _comte's_ heels. 

"FIre.  Probably a diversion.  Can't leave the horses in there though."  Porthos was halfway down the stairs. 

"Wait for Aramis to give you cover," Athos hissed in a loud whisper, then wondered why he was whispering. "Grandier, wake the innkeeper if he is not already up.  DO NOT GO OUTSIDE UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES!  d'Artagnan, bang on doors.  Gather everyone in the most secure room you can find and block the windows if you can."

"Could be just a fire," Porthos observed as he took the last six stairs in two hops.

"Treat it as an ambush!" Athos leaned over the railing to yell. 

d'Artagnan, weaving a bit, was already banging on doors, shouting FIRE as Grandier, following Porthos' example, took the stairs down two and three at a time. 

Doors flew open up and down the corridor.  In seconds the landing was a madhouse of screaming guests frantically clutching jewelry, portmanteau, and nightcaps, milling about bawling like sheep without a shepherd. 

Aramis, wrapping his hand in his blue sash, smashed the left side of the window at the end of the hallway, knocking out a human-sized hole in the glass. 

" d'Artagnan, get these people downstairs.  Don't let anyone out! If it's an ambush, they'll expect people to come rushing out the back since the stables are on fire.  If it's our friends, they won't care who they kill.  If it's someone after Grandier, they may be more circumspect.  Don't take any chances.   Send Grandier back up here to load for us."  Athos dashed back into their room to check the window overlooking the side grounds.  "Nothing," he reported, using his pistol butt to break out the window on the right.  "See anything?"

"Nothing suspicious."  Aramis took a chance and leaned out the window to yell down,  "Ready when you are, Porthos."

"NOW!" Porthos burst from the ground floor back door.

"HELLANDAMANTION!" Athos howled, as d'Artagnan appeared on the musketeer's heels, both of them bent double and zigzagging across the open space between the back of the inn and the stables.  They split to go around the large marble fountain decorating the back aspect of the inn. 

"They're on the roof!" Aramis threw himself half out the window as shards of marble, lethal as the flying lead, sprayed the running pair.   "I can't see a damn thing, no way to return fire from this position!  And they're turning the fountain into a weapon as well!"

The barn roof belched smoke and embers, swallowing up Porthos and d'Artagnan as though dragon flame devoured them, though lead continued to spray up dirt and grass and more marble splinters.  

"PORTHOS!" 

"D'ARTAGNAN!"

Grandier came pounding up the stairs, praying, "O Lord, You are our refuge and our strength, a very present help in help in times of trouble.  You know the plans you have for these precious souls, plans for welfare and not evil!  You have their futures in Your hands, keep them safe. Amen.  d'Artagnan said I was to load.  I can shoot too.  Is this about you or me?"

Neither of the musketeers heard him. 

"PORTHOS!" Aramis screamed again. 

Athos was hanging out his side of the window as well, straining to peer through the smoke.  Every ornamental bush and plant swayed with the suck and draw of the fire, casting bizarre shadows across the grounds.  "PORTHOS! D'ARTAGNAN!"

"If they're not inside by now, they're dead," Aramis said dispassionately.  "SIx, maybe seven, possibly eight on the roof.  Shots came from at least three different angles." He leaned out again, precariously.  "There, there, and--" he twisted to point toward the middle roof as Athos grabbed a handful of coat, "there.  Likely another at the southeast corner.  Could be one right over top of us." He ducked back inside and Athos let go.  "Muskets for certain, flintlocks most likely.  If they have people on the other side, Porthos and d'Artagnan are sitting ducks."

"Then we need to be in the barn."

"No, we need to be on the roof."  Aramis prowled the hallway, looking for an access panel. 

"Another wing?"

"There'll be one in every wing.  Here!  Grandier--"

The priest was already beside him, bending so his shoulder braced Aramis' thigh, hands laced to provide a cradle for a foot.  Aramis shoved an extra pistol in his belt, put a boot into those fingers and with one hand on Grandier's shoulder pushed up to work the latch, throwing open the hatch uncaring if he announced his presence.  Grandier heaved and he was head and shoulders through, pistol in hand.

A single shot rang out followed by a thud on the roof above their heads.  Athos and Grandier froze, Aramis' legs disappeared and his face, a pale space in this darkness of the hallway, reappeared.  "One down!" 

"Get me up there!" Athos dropped the musket and raced to the opposite end of the hall. 

"You've only got one good leg--"

"There are at least six of them!  Get me up there!"  Athos shoved off Grandier's waiting hands, levering himself onto the roof next to a surprised Aramis. 

"Are you insane?" Aramis hissed, throwing a boot back down the open hatch, then a stocking, and then the other boot. 

"Runs in the family, brother," Athos hissed back, pulling off his own boots and stockings.  "Grandier," he stuck his head back down inside, "hand up the musket."

The cleric dashed to snatch up the musket, ran back and shoved it up through the opening.

"Go see if you can work a miracle with the other guests, they'll be in a panic.  Organize a bucket brigade, but don't let anyone out until one of us gives the all clear."

"Right!" 

From the roof, Aramis had a bird's eye view of the barn roof.  For a moment his heart stopped.  And then, above the voracious roar of the inferno, he heard shouting.  He could not make out the words, but the sound of voices was enough to restart his heart and get him moving, soft-footed, across the roof, Athos right beside him.

Below in the barn, d'Artagnan dragged off the jacket he'd barely gotten on, using it to flay embers kindling in the stacked bales of hay.  "We'll have to lead them out, they won't go on their own!"  He was staggering on his feet, but retrieved the first two horses on the left as Porthos collected two on the right. 

It was as light as day inside, the devouring fire providing plenty of illumination, though it belched black clouds of smoke that had had them coughing before they'd even made it inside the stable. 

"Out the back," Porthos yelled, whipping off his head scarf to cover the eyes of a balking bay. 

Four horses out and no shots from the woods beyond the barn.  Low anxious whickering became frightened whinnies and then trumpeting sounds of panic. 

They grabbed four more as the hayloft caught with a whoosh, sucking air from their already straining lungs.  Tongues of flame shot out from the rafters, smoke curled sinuously through the wooden slats of stalls and there were eight free; six still to go.

d'Artagnan threw his coat over his head, opened the stall door for his horse and snatched the halters  of another two, whistling for his horse as he struggled to drag them to the opposite end of the barn. 

A burning rafter crashed behind them and d'Artagnan's pair bolted for the exit.  Porthos was dragging the last three from the right side out into the night and d'Artagnan flung himself around uncaring that the floor pitched and heaved beneath his feet. 

Overhead, the center beam shifted, creaking ominously over the roar of the fire.  His horse, the whites of its eyes showing all around the pupil, shied back as d'Artagnan all but fell into the stall, rearing when the youth attempted to catch his halter.  Desperation lent both ingenuity and aid.  d'Artagnan snatched the halter as the horse came down, wrenched his head around and scaled the wide-spaced boards of the stall, dragging the horse close enough to throw a leg over his back and grab his mane. 

They shot out of the stall, jumped another fallen rafter in flames and dashed for the door, narrowly missing being buried under half a ton of burning hay as the center beam collapsed and the entire roof and hayloft caved in. 

Porthos dragged him off the horse and practically fell on him, rolling them both in the dirt to extinguish the glowing flakes of ash lighting on the youth like fireflies.  "Are you burnt?"

"No, I don't think so." d'Artagnan did not protest when Porthos pulled him to his feet and turned him roughly to inspect his back.

"Just a little singed, thank God!" Porthos yanked the youth to his chest, hugged him tightly and set him back on his feet.  "It wasn't worth your life, going back in there!  Stay with the horses, I'm going to find the rest."  And he was off at a run. 

d'Artagnan, knees the consistency of cooked pasta, sank to the ground panting, fourteen whickering, nickering horses jostling around him.  "Get up, get up," d'Artagnan growled, pushing with all his strength against the ground.  The ground pushed, unyieldingly, back, and his limbs remained stubbornly noodle-ish.  The best he could do was crawl, very carefully and none too fast, under, through and around still nervously stamping hooves to the outside of the milling herd.

Porthos jerked around as the crack of a pistol ball eclipsed the roar of the fire behind him.  With a roar of his own he sprinted back the way he had come, skidding to a halt at d'Artagnan's feet.  With a single snatch he flung away the body draped over their puppy and grabbed the Gason by the front of his shirt.  "Are you hurt?"

"No," d'Artagnan gasped.  "Or only a little," he admitted, when Porthos dragged him up for a closer inspection.  "Just a graze.  Never heard a thing ... then a sword at my neck.  He thought I was --- a sitting duck -- shot him over my shoulder." He slumped against Porthos' broad chest again.  "Really, really tired, Porthos."

"Yeah, I know, but ya gotta hold up a little bit longer, boy.  Come on, can't leave ya here obviously.  Athos and Aramis are on the roof, can't help 'em from here."

"They'll ... be together ... shoot ... _you_ ... if you try to go up there ... now."

Porthos ignored the comment, throwing an arm around the youth's lean middle and half dragging him through the milling horses. 

There was no hail of bullets this time, as they crossed the thirty yards of open space to the back of the inn.  Though they heard two more shots, a shout and a distinctive thump, followed by a raspy sliding sound before a body rolled off the roof to land two feet in front of them. The center roof had no parapet.  Blood splattered everything within a two yard radius. 

"Not ours."  Porthos grunted, grabbing the feet to haul the body far enough back to open the door and shove d'Artagnan inside.  "Find Grandier and make sure he's all right!"  He waited neither to see if the Gascon remained on his feet, nor for an answer.  He was around the corner of the main wing, hugging the shadows as he scanned what he could see of the opposite roofs. 

While he didn't have quite as much experience as Aramis, climbing in or hanging out windows, Porthos had scaled many a building in his misspent youth, though he was a bit taller, broader and heavier than the last time he'd tried it.  He grabbed a hank of ivy, gave it an experimental tug and then a twist and started up the wall hand over hand using the stuff like rope.  He had to stop on a second story window ledge and catch his breath, but only for a moment and two minutes later he was dragging himself over the low parapet. 

"Peent," he whistled, as he slid over the edge, repeating the call twice more, loud and sharp as the nighthawks did.  Off to his right, the call was returned, and then to his left, copied.  The bulk of the house lay west to east, with a north-facing front and a southern exposure on the back where the courtyard had been built.  Bending to keep the parapet on his left, Porthos moved swiftly on silent feet towards the copied call. 

"Goddamn idiot," Athos muttered, back pressed against a chimney as he reloaded for both of them.  "Like as not we'll end up shooting _him_ up here in the dark."  He tolerated heights, but had no love for them.  Aramis, on the other hand, loved the thrill and was treating this little adventure like a walk down the _Champs Elysees_. 

"Not a chance," Aramis murmured peering around the edge of their cover.  "This is like shooting pigeons," he grumbled, sliding open the powder pan as he pursed his lips and puffed on the fuse. His shot cracked loudly, even over the gasping fire.  "Three down.  You'd think they'd figure out there's only two of us--" he paused to repeat the nighthawk call, "three now, and try to rush us.  Why come up here in the first place?  Did they think we're stupid enough to let them pick us off like sitting ducks?"

"Between them, they might have a whole brain; they are instinctively cunning though."  Athos closed the pans, blew off the excess powder and exchanged the two pistols for the musket. "Are we moving?"

"Not until Porthos catches up with us," Aramis said, whistling again.  He cocked his head suddenly, threw himself around Athos and cracked a fourth over the head, snatching the falling pistol out of the air as he shoulder slammed the dropping body so it tumbled head over heels down the slope of the roof to fetch up hard against the parapet.  It did not get up, but Aramis followed anyway, throwing the man's bent sword over onto the front lawn before retrieving a second loaded pistol from the back of the brigand's waistband and a knife from the boot.  His ear had discerned the stealthy tread of the boots even over the ...

Another shot, and the sound of a scuffle, then the nighthawk's call again, away to their left. 

"Missed that one," Aramis panted, clamping his bare toes on the slick tiles as Athos reached out to drag him up the last few feet of the slope.  "That's five.  Odds are much closer to even now, unless they held back a contingent."

Athos whistled back and two minutes later, Porthos ghosted up the way they had come, from the southwest.  "Least you saved me some fun," he whispered, white grin flashing broadly.  "There's two I saw on the southeast corner, this side of the roof."

"That'd make seven," Aramis stated. His original estimate. 

"They're not smart enough to have held back a contingent."

"Do we consider that a sure thing or proceed with caution?"

"A sure thing," Athos replied, handing Porthos one of the extra pistols Aramis had shoved into his hands.  "And we proceed with caution anyway.  Spread out so they can't get past us this way."

"One's already down, tried to decapitate d'Artagnan.  Didn't go clear around the house lookin', but they may have an escape route."  Porthos was grateful for the cleaner air up here. 

"You two can handle these last ones then, if there are even any left up here.  I'm going back down to reconnoiter the grounds."

"Get Grandier to go with you," Porthos called softly after their departing leader. 

Athos touched his hat brim in acknowledgement but did not reply and a moment later his black clothes dissolved into the darkness as though the night had swallowed him whole.   

 He dropped back through the access hatch without bothering to check the hallway first.  He doubted there were any inside, though if there were, they would shortly be just as dead as those they'd encountered on the roof. 

Athos ran down the stairs, the battle rush lending a false strength he knew he'd pay for, especially with the twisted ankle, but in the moment, he did not care.  He paused briefly at the bottom, to get his bearings, then followed the sound of angry, shouting voices to an inner room and banged on the door.  "d'Artagnan!  Grandier!"

The door swung open before his fist fell upon it a second time, and he was face to face with the innkeeper.  "The priest went to scout the grounds." The man turned slightly so Athos had a glimpse of d'Artagnan surrounded by a bevy of females all trying to remove his clothing. 

"Good, keep him in here.  Bar this door from the inside and don't open it again until one of us tells you too."  He waited only long enough to hear the bar slide home, knowing it would not keep out anyone determined to get in, but it would slow them down. 

Athos grabbed his sword from its sheath as he swung around the hallway corner into the reception area, body slammed the front door back on its hinges and tore into the night.  He had not taken time to pull his boots back on so his running footsteps on the deep velvet grass were silent and stealthy. 

He rounded a corner into an equally silent fight, almost spitting himself as  Grandier, face shining with sweat in the waning light of the moon - the only light on this side of the inn - yanked his sword free and swung to face this new threat.  Behind him, a body toppled slowly, hands clutching at its belly. 

"Whoa!  It's Athos!" the musketeer grunted, swaying back as he dug his heels in to avoid being run through. 

"Dear God!  I nearly killed you!"

"Occupational hazard."  Athos bent over his knees, breathing hard.  "Yours makes eight."  They heard another shot from above and then the nighthawk call, three times, quick and sharp, in succession.  "Come on." He straightened, taking the priest's arm.  "What are you doing out here anyway?  I told you to stay inside."

"Why should I cower safely in the house while the four of you die on my behalf?"

"Firstly, because if something happens to you and any one of us lives through this, we'll have been derelict in our duty!" Athos whispered, "And secondly, because these are not your enemies, they're mine.  So I would be doubly accountable if something were to happen to you.  Now get back in the house!" 

"Watch out!"

Athos ducked as he spun, his rapier flashing with deadly speed and accuracy, slicing through boot leather as if it were nothing but butter, stopping only when it hit bone.  He yanked the sword free as he tucked and rolled out of reach, though it wasn't necessary.  His attacker went down like falling timber without the tendons at the backs of his ankles to keep him upright, a new birthed scream cut off almost before it was born as Grandier's sword grip smashed across the back of the attacker's head. 

"Better he not announce where we are," the priest said calmly, flipping the rapier in his gloved hand to catch the grip again and wipe the bloody blade in the grass. 

"Remind me to be admiring later, if we're still alive."

They ran, silent as ghosts, the width of the building, skidding to a halt at the northeast corner.  The fire's glow limned the hard right angle and Athos, one hand on the building, risked a glance around. 

"What?" Grandier hissed, as Athos slumped back against the stone without a word.

The musketeer straightened, grip firming on his rapier.  "He's got d'Artagnan.  Stay here." Athos pulled his parrying dagger, took one deep breath, shrugged his shoulders to loosen the instant tightening seeing the trapped youth had caused, and stepped around the corner into the glaring light of the fire.

"Oh how nice, you've finally joined the party.  I knew you'd get around here eventually; we've been waiting for you, de la Fère." d'Artagnan hung limp as a rag doll in the circle of Arceneau's arm, a grotesque parody of the toy.  "You're wondering how I lured him out, yes?  It was so very easy.  I've always had a gift for mimicry."

Pitch and tone changed in the smooth voice, adding just a hint of roughness to the vocal chords and a touch of command.  "d'Artagnan!  Open the door!" The weasel smiled at his own brilliance.  "We were just down the hall, you understand.  It did not even require patience." 

Aramis or Porthos would have opened the door to that voice.  Athos said nothing, just waited at the ready.

Three more men were ranged, unmoving, behind the Comte de le Arceneau.  All held pistols and swords at the ready.  Athos wondered, briefly and without caring, if there were more. 

"I thought about killing him right there in the doorway, but I so hate a mess before I've had my fun.  And of course, I want him awake by the time I'm done with you!  So I didn't hit him too hard."  Arceneau tipped d'Artagnan's chin up and let it fall.  "He is rather attractive.  Perhaps if he hadn't been with you, we might have gone on to England and left you alone to imagine you had defeated us, but I can never resist a challenge." 

He tossed the limp body to one of his lieutenant's who grabbed an arm, nearly yanking it from the socket as the man juggled gun, rapier, and six feet plus of unconscious youth.  "I think I will just wound you so you can live to watch our fun and die knowing you will have to account for his mortal soul. Oh, by the way, should I perchance make a fatal mistake and die upon your sword, the boy dies in that instant too." 

 Athos buried his rage deep inside his glacial heart as he took another two steps forward.  He was at a distinct disadvantage.  He would have to mind his feet as well as his opponent's sword; even on grass one deliberate stomp and this deadly game would be over. 

"Shall I tell you my plans for him while we dance, _monsieur_?"  Arceneau  lunged without the _de rigour en garde._

Athos met the charge with a parry and pitched his voice above the insatiable roar of the fire.  "Arceneau is MINE, Aramis!"

The man holding d'Artagnan fell backwards with a musket ball between the eyes.  The second and third dropped like standing stones before they could lift a weapon.

Arceneau only laughed manically.  "Well played, _mon ami_!  But there are too many of us to count.  You do not have enough bullets for all of us."

Athos made no reply, only circled in place as Arceneau's rapier made questing little feints.  He could feel Grandier's solidarity, though the man had obeyed his command, surprisingly.  d'Artagnan was safe so long as Aramis and Porthos were on the roof and Grandier did not make himself known. 

Athos shut his mind to all else, narrowing his focus to the extension of his arm and hand.  Arceneau  had invested in a decent teacher, but for all that his fencing had improved, he was still a dilettante with an attitude.  Much like the youths' Athos had taught in his early days with the Musketeers - sure of himself and bold with it. 

It was child's play to merely defend, and Athos, weary already, allowed Arceneau to tire himself out with his fussy footwork and fanciful flailing. 

The musketeer let the dance go on for a long twenty minutes, meeting each attack with a minimalist response, before he struck the first time.  Blood flew in a broad arc as a  deep gash opened across the backs of the fingers that gripped Arceneau's parrying dagger.  The man spun away, the knife flying wide to bury itself in the lush thickness of the grass. 

And still Arceneau's words spilled into the blank space had Athos created for them.  He did not hear their meaning, only the sound, as his mind cataloged the wet, sandpapery rasp of each gasping inhale and wheezing exhale. 

His own twisted ankle gave only a twinge of warning before it folded beneath Athos.  He fell forward, blade shrieking as it slid the length of Arceneau's, into a bind, and for a moment, Athos' entire weight hung from that bind.  

He pushed off and the Comte de le Arceneau stumbled backwards clutching a gauntleted hand to his gut. 

The mouth worked soundlessly for a  moment, though perhaps there were words and Athos still could not hear them.  Arceneau staggered, sagging slowly to his knees.  "You son of a bitch, you've killed me."  Blood frothed on lips still stretched in a travesty of a grin. 

"Yes," Athos said pleasantly,  "two and a half years too late.  Give my regards to the devil and ask him to reserve a room for me.  I will see you in hell."  This, at least , was one death that would not hover on the edge of his conscience for the rest of his life.   

"Do it right de la Fère, the _coup de grâce_!"  This was delivered with a bubbling hiss.

Athos did not deign to answer.  He had a few steps left in him; he used them to make it to d'Artagnan's side.

Grandier was there already and in the light of the fire, Athos saw the right side of the priest's face glistened with streaks of red.  Unflappable was their guest, a man without an avocation but who had embraced his vocation with far more zeal than many Athos had met who'd taken religious vows. 

The man cradled d'Artagnan's upper body in his arms, the boy's face pressed tenderly to his chest.  "...oh Father, You give power to the faint and to them that have no might, You increase their strength.  Renew this child's strength, O Lord, so that he may run and not be weary, walk and not faint.   Do not call him yet into the everlasting life of your kingdom; he has a work here to do among his brothers.  All praise and honor and glory to You who have spared our lives this night, we give thanks with grateful hearts.  Amen." 

"Thank you," Athos said simply, sinking to his knees as Porthos and Aramis rounded the corner at a run, both with pistols and swords still at the ready.

"Did we get 'em all, then?" Porthos asked, kneeling at d'Artagan's feet. 

"Don't know." Athos slumped on the grass.  "We should look for horses."

Grandier yielded his place to Aramis.  "He is young, they are all hard headed.  Your puppy will be fine."

Nonetheless, Aramis ran a hand through d'Artagnan's hair, breathing a sigh of relief when his fingers encountered no new swellings. 

"You need to take better care of him," Grandier admonished, a gleam of mischief in his twinkling eyes. 

"Suspect we got our job cut out for us.  If he can't find trouble, he'll likely make it," Porthos grumbled. 

"Hardly fair," Athos pointed out, "since most of the trouble he's encountered has been mine." 

"Yeah well, guess we'll see."  Porthos' rapier rasped back into its sheath. "I'll go look for horses."

"Not alone!" Athos roused himself enough to snap before falling back again.  "Grandier, are you up to going with him?"

"Of course."  Grandier rose swiftly, infusing his agreement with gratification for the trust the request implied. 

"Do we have a count?"

"Seven on the roof.  Four here," Aramis grunted. 

"One dead, one alive but incapacitated down here," Grandier added.   

"Thirteen.  Christ,"  Athos sighed.  "With apologies, Father."

"Absolved.  It's been quite a night.  They would have left the horses a good distance from the fire," the priest suggested tentatively.

"Excellent observation."

"Likely toward the front then."  Porthos heaved himself to his feet.  "Shouldn't take long to find 'em.  You going in?  They'll be chompin' at the bit inside, wantin' news."

"We'll wait here."  Athos would make use of Grandier's charm when they were sure the mess was cleaned up.  He'd send the man to deal with the parlor contingent.  "I can go to our rooms if you need your bag, Aramis."

"These are loaded, don't go kickin' 'em around," Porthos said as he pulled half a dozen pistols from his belt and boots, stacking them crisscross at d'Artagnan's feet.  "You," he pointed a finger at Athos, "stay here.  Aramis said your boots are under the roof access panel;  I'll get 'em, along with the bag." He turned to the priest, inspecting the bloody face.  "You sure you're up to this?" 

"It's just a nick on the ear."  Grandier fingered the top of his right ear.  "Oh dear, should have left it alone," he said, as warm blood began to trickle down the side of his face again.  "At any rate, it's not a problem."

"All right, if you're up to it, we'll be back shortly."

Aramis settled himself and d'Artagnan more comfortably in the grass, though he kept a sharp eye peeled for any skulking shadows.  Athos appeared to have fallen asleep.

"Barn roof's a total loss." 

Appearances, as Aramis had learned long ago, could be  deceiving.  He turned his head.  "Porthos said they got all the horses out.  And it's contained."

"Nothing else to jump to, thank God.  Is the puppy going to be alright?"

"What do you want to hear?"  Aramis glanced at the prone figure, though Athos had an arm over his eyes.  "One blow to the head can be fatal or permanently addle wits.  He's been knocked around more than a few times over the last few days.  He will recover - or he won't."

"Christ," Athos said again, softly.

The defeat in the often inflectionless voice made Aramis sit up a bit straighter, his protective instincts kicking in hard.  For a moment, though, the often ruthlessly suppressed tender heart could not decide who needed his protection the most.  "I thought you could care less what happened to him."

Athos, who had silence down to a science, did not reply immediately.  When he did, it was quietly contemplative.  "I did not want to."

"Kinda grows on you, doesn't he."  It was not a question.

"Like an obnoxious clinging vine."

Aramis chuckled.  "And yet, you told him we would accompany him back to Gascony."

"A moment of weakness." Athos sighed again. 

"You are such a fraud!" Aramis laughed outright. 

The sound must have pierced the veil, for d'Artagnan came to consciousness swinging.  He clipped Aramis' chin with a surprisingly strong left before the musketeer could contain his hands.

Aramis tightened his hold and bent over the thrashing body, cuffing the slender wrists in one hand.  "It's me, d'Artagnan, Aramis."

Athos rolled quickly to sit up, lending hands and voice to the grounding attempts.  "Arceneau is dead, d'Artagnan.  Listen to me, he's dead." He shuffled closer to frame the Gascon's face with his palms.  "Shhhhhhhhhhh .... settle, he's dead," he repeated.  "It's Aramis holding you.  Arceneau is dead."

The fight drained out of the boy, though little earthquake convulsions continued to randomly quiver through the quiescent body.  The lax hands fell loosely to his sides as Aramis released the clamped wrists.

"Shhhhhhhhhhh."  Athos ran a thumb gently over the high cheekbone when the lips tried to form words.  "It's over, just rest now."

"Sorry..." d'Artagnan's voice was little more than a thread of sound, raspy from smoke inhalation.  The single word set off a coughing fit that had him curling over Aramis' supporting arm. 

"There is no fault to you.  Aramis or Porthos would have opened that door."

Aramis, soothing the corded muscles strained tight across the taut back and shoulders slumped over his arm, raised his eyebrows.

"He used to entertain at parties with his incredible mimicry; I'd forgotten that particular trait.  He couldn't resist doing his impression for me; trust me, you would have opened the door."

"How --"

"He said they were in the hallway when I told the innkeep to keep d'Artagnan inside and only open the door for one of us," Athos preempted.  "He would have waited just long enough for it to be perfectly reasonable that I had returned."

"I thought you said he was stupid."

"No, I said they might one brain between them.  But even unreasoning animals are instinctively cunning."

"Dead?" d'Artagnan rasped, needing to hear the certainty again.

"Dead," Athos verified with complete veracity. His dagger had not pierced flesh accidentally.  If hell hadn't already welcomed Arceneau, the devil and his minions were waiting impatiently by the gate. 

"Horses?"

"Between you and Porthos, you got them all out."

"No--"

"Oh," Athos interrupted, adjusting his response.  "Yes, Porthos and Grandier went to look for their horses.  With Arceneau dead though, the fight will have gone out of them.  He was always the chief instigator."

"Wha--"

"Enough." Aramis cut it off this time before another coughing fit consumed the puppy.  "There's no need to torture your throat like this.  We'll tell you what happened if you'll be quiet and listen."

d'Artagnan sucked in a deep breath and lifted a hand, smacking himself in the face with his unwieldy limb before clumsily dragging his pinched fingers across his lips. 

Laughing again, Aramis gave the youth a brief sideways hug before easing him back down to lie in the grass. 

"You are doughty of spirit."  Athos allowed a tinge of admiration to leak through as he laced his fingers behind his head, adroitly adding, "Aramis is the better story teller."

Aramis clasped his hands around his knees, swiveling on his fundament so he could keep an eye on his patient.  While his nerves still hummed in the aftermath of the initial aria, they were negotiating a stand down truce.  The prickling sense of danger lurking around every corner was slowly mitigating, the bristling short hairs at the back of his neck furling down like porcupine quills.

"That depends on how you want to hear it.  If you want facts only, Athos should tell it.  Tréville will only take report from him, he says Porthos and I give way too many details." 

"There's not that much to tell," Athos inserted quickly, before d'Artagnan was required to choose.  "Aramis and Porthos took care of the roof contingent.  Grandier and I dispatched two more prowling around in the dark and Aramis took out Arceneau's ground crew while we dueled to the death.  His death obviously, since the fool couldn't fence his way out of a sack.  Aramis and Porthos joined us down here and I sent Grandier and Porthos off to count their horses, just to make sure we got them all.  I suspect we all acquired a few more bumps and scratches, but no one is more seriously injured than before.  Perhaps if they'd spent more time drilling and less time in debauchery, the sheer number of them might have been imposing, but the way they ranged themselves made it much easier to hunt them.  There are a dozen dead and one who will not walk for the rest of his life."

"Yeah, Athos can't walk either, though that will remedy itself.   Fortunately this is a non-issue so long as we can hoist him on and off his horse," Aramis appended.  "How does it happen one can't walk?"

"It was dark, I rolled under his swing and sliced what was in reach of my sword.  It happened to be the backs of his heels.  Grandier knocked him out before he could howl our whereabouts." 

"Exciting."

"Not so much."

"Missed ... it all," d'Artagnan groaned.

"They're coming."

"I hear." Athos sat up. 

Between the pair of musketeers, d'Artagnan shoved up as well.  Aramis let him be.

Athos pushed up to his feet, quickly counting horses.  "Fourteen.  Damn, one still missing."

"Did you ... count ... the one behind the barn?"

"Behind the barn?" Athos and Aramis parroted in unison.

"Shot one ... behind the barn."  d'Artagnan leaned his head to the side, tugging at the hem of his jacket to reveal the slice along his neck.  "Match ... Aramis."

Without volition, Aramis' hand went to his own neck.  "Doughty indeed."  He shook his head.  "If you still don't recognize exceptional musketeer material, I will have to name you deaf, dumb and blind,  Athos.  Get his other arm." 

"Was that deaf, dumb and blind Athos?  Or Athos, get his other arm?"

"Either works, take your pick."

Between them, they lifted d'Artagnan to his feet.


	11. Chapter 11

Though they did not have to hire a carriage as Porthos had disparaged, his augury of a taking a week to get home did come true.  Grandier was the only one capable of staying in the saddle more than a few hours a day and Athos made no attempt to rush them back.  It took a seven-day to convey their battered bodies back to Paris. 

Tréville was waiting in the courtyard when they rode in late on a Wednesday afternoon. 

"What are they doing here?"  As a greeting it left something to be desired, but Athos was in no mood to deal with the deputation of Red Guards lounging about in the Musketeer garrison. 

"They are here for me," Grandier said. 

Tréville caught the minimalist gesture from Athos that halted the priest's dismount, and kept his mouth shut.

"Then they are here in vain.  Captain, they may be dismissed, Father Grandier will remain our guest until such time as his trial takes place.  I will stand as his bond."

"That is necessary, _monsieur_.  I hear the Bastille is more than comfortable."  Grandier had obeyed that gesture though, and did not move from his horse.  Nor did the remaining trio of men slouched in their saddles dismount. 

"No," Athos said without emphasis, though there was in the denial a flat finality.  "You will take him over our dead bodies and I assure you, _mon capitan_ , after the week we've had, you don't want to tangle with us." 

"I will speak to the cardinal," Tréville inserted into the suddenly escalating tension, though the quintet still on their horses had not moved a muscle. 

"We could just take him."  The Red Guard leader postured menacingly. 

"You could try," Porthos offered softly, pistol appearing in his hand as if by magic.  "This here ball's got your name on it.  You wanna eat it fer dinner?"

"You only prolong the situation with your ridiculous swagger, musketeer."  The leader, at least, was smart enough to recognize the futility of arguing.   At his signal, the contingent formed up in a neat square.  "The priest will be in the Bastille before sundown," the man snarled, and marched his formation out through the arch. 

"Buncha' pompous asses, Father," Porthos said, swinging down.  Aramis, Grandier and d'Artagnan all swung down and turned their horses over too.

"How are you to attend at the _Hôtel de Rambouillet_ if you are in the Bastille, Father?" Athos followed suit, handing off his reins to a second stable boy.  Taking Grandier by an elbow, he drew him forward.  "Captain Tréville, I commend to you Father Urbain Grandier of the diocese Poitiers, church of St. Croix in Loudun.  Father Grandier, you will soon come to appreciate, is a man of wit and charm and endless stories, not to mention as brave as the day is long.  Like St. Peter, he gave up an ear on our behalf, though Aramis does not quite have the messiah's healing touch." Athos made an obeisance toward the priest.  "Father, this is Captain Tréville, our garrison commander, and a man as honest as the day is long." 

Tréville bowed as well, more than a little surprised at Athos' unusually garrulous introduction.   "At your service, Father.  We keep quarters for guests here at the garrison, though they are neither as luxurious  as the cardinal's palace nor quite as inhospitable as the Bastille." 

"I am sure I would be quite comfortable here if you can arrange it, good sir, but please do not cross swords with the cardinal on my behalf.  He will do with me as he pleases, no need to incur other causalities along the way."

"I will at least speak to Richelieu on your behalf, Father.  In the meantime, if I may be so bold, we have the finest cook in all of Paris, bar none.  You are welcome to dine with us if you care to.  Aramis will see you to the guest quarters so you can rid yourself of the road dirt it seems you've all accumulated."  The captain's keen eye roamed over his trio of musketeers and their two guests.  "Based on the reports Athos has been sending, I'm thankful you are all home safe, if not entirely sound just yet."  He bowed to the priest again and turned on a heel.  "Athos, d'Artagnan.  My office." 

d'Artagnan, with a little rest and the indefatigability of youth, had rebounded quickly.  The black eye had faded to a lizard-underbelly-yellow with faint traces of metallic green still at the center and he canted occasionally to the left, but Aramis said that would pass, along with the headaches he was still experiencing. 

Athos made a graceful gesture toward the stairs, putting a hand briefly to small of the stiff back as d'Artagnan passed him.  "It will be fine, you have my word."

"You'll break me out of the Bastille if it comes to that?" d'Artagnan was not joking. 

"Porthos can pick any lock in the kingdom in under five seconds."  Athos followed the foot-dragging youth to the top of the stairs, propelling him along the short walkway with a steady hand.  "A useless waste of worry, borrowing trouble."

"This I'm not borrowing," d'Artagnan hissed.  "This is all my own."

"Shut the door."  Tréville picked up a letter on the desk, perused it briefly and folded it closed. 

Athos following d'Artagnan into the office obeyed the command, removed his hat, and leaned back against the solid oak egress.    

d'Artagnan stopped in the center of the large room, half way between the door and the desk.  He crossed his arms over his chest, then uncrossed them but did not know what to do with his hands.  Sticking them in his sword belt would appear insufficiently contrite, sticking them under his arms, as he was wont to do when in doubt, would likely give the appearance of guilt.

"I did not kill the ambassador," he stated firmly, thankful his voice did not quiver like his knees. 

Tréville's faintly troubled look gave way to an equally faint smile, just a twitch really at the left corner of the mouth.  "That matter was resolved several days ago."

d'Artagnan's hands dropped to his sides, then lifted to his sword belt.  The dark eyebrows drew together in a frown.  "Then why am I here?"

Tréville tapped the letter on the desk.  "Your father says you wish to be a musketeer."

d'Artagnan's mouth dropped open.  In all the tumult of the last week he'd completely forgotten that conversation with Aramis and Porthos in the inn dining room.  He felt a chill chase up his spine, followed by a little thrill, as if his father had reached out from the grave to lay his hand in blessing upon his son.   He could hear the doctor in his head as if the man was standing right beside him, _breathe through your nose._   He did - but it didn't help.  He was so lightheaded with the expansion of relief in his chest, there was hardly any room for the elation unfolding petal by petal like a flower opening at the direction of the sun.  At the very least he was not about to join the priest in the Bastille. 

He felt Athos' solidity at his back, their shoulders brushing lightly, the small purposeful touch grounding d'Artagnan in the present.  "There _is_ a letter?" he breathed faintly.

"I've had it for a month," Tréville stated, extending a hand with the piece of parchment.  

Athos bumped his shoulder in friendly fashion again.  "Perhaps you should read it for yourself."

d'Artagnan stepped forward to take it, but stepped back again immediately, needing the support of that unyielding presence at his back.  

"I am sorry, things were in such chaos when you  arrived, I did not at first connect you with the letter.  But then when you and your father did not appear at the appointed time, I began to put together all of the events and realized who you were.  Athos is right, you will wish to read that."

d'Artagnan glanced to Tréville, then sideways at Athos.  "A month?  You received a letter a month ago?  The subject of a trip to Paris only came up a month ago."

"The letter," Athos prodded again.  "Perhaps it will give you an explanation."  He physically lifted the hand holding it, moved the thumb that held it closed and spread the tri-folded piece of parchment.

d'Artagnan read silently.

_Captain Tréville,_

_Please allow me to introduce myself, I am Alexandre d'Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony, though I write on behalf of my son, Charles d'Artagnan.  He has grown into a fine young man with well-set principles and a keen eye for justice.  Whatever he chooses to do with his life, he will do it with passion and purpose. He will be twenty at the end of this month and it is time to let him pursue his own desires._

_Since childhood he has dreamt of serving at the pleasure of the king as one of the elite Musketeer Guard.  I am unskilled with the sword and so no fit judge of his talent.  But my late brother-in-law taught d'Artagnan everything he knew of the craft and believed my son has the ability to hone the expertise he has already developed and would be an outstanding addition to your garrison._

_Our land produces enough to feed the families we house and care for, and a few of those communal souls our village maintains, but it will not stretch to cover the price of a commission.  I know there are as many earned positions in the Musketeers as purchased, and so I am writing to ask if you would be willing to at least allow me to bring d'Artagnan to Paris for an interview._

_If you agree to this, I will tell my son we go to Paris to petition the king.  The taxes here in Gascony are execrable, he will not think twice about such reasoning.  If it should come to pass that you accept him, I would appreciate your keeping this letter between us.  (He does not need to know quite the extent of his father's doting.). If you turn him down, he will at least have the comfort of having had the opportunity to make his case. And finally, if he is not good enough, he needs to know this too._

_You may reach me at the address above if you are so inclined.  If I do not hear back from you, I will consider the matter closed and d'Artagnan will follow in my footsteps caring for our retainers and the land because he is a good son. Though I believe with all my heart that would be a great waste of his talents._

_Sincerely,_

_A. d'Artagnan_

Athos scooped the suddenly floating letter out of the air, grateful the legacy of _his_ name as Alexandre d'Artagnan's last word had been eclipsed.  And heart glad for d'Artagnan that the youth would be able to set aside his guilt and pursue his dreams with intention and a clear conscience.  Perhaps not right away, as the _comte_ was well aware his old friend guilt never just disappeared into thin air.  But eventually d'Artagnan would grow into an acceptance of the currently bewildering parental change of heart. 

Athos folded the letter again and slipped it in his coat pocket.  He would return it when the youth was coherent enough to tuck the relic away in some place safe.

 d'Artagnan put a hand to his head, as though it was aching again.  Trembling fingers slipped into the curtain of hair hiding his face, shoving it back to reveal - unashamedly - the bright tracks of tears.  "I had no idea.  We argued about this all the time." The quiver in his knees climbed up to his voice, though for entirely different reasons now.  "No idea."  A warm hand closed gently around the back of his neck, a small discreet connection that steadied him without drawing any attention. 

Tréville smiled kindly.  "When you've had a chance to absorb this news, come back and let's discuss how we can make your father's last wish a reality," the captain offered with genuine regard.  "Why don't you stay to dinner as well?  If you like, we can talk afterwards." 

d'Artagnan's mouth opened and closed several times.

"He says thanks, he'd like that," Athos said after a respectably long pause, taking the youth's arm and steering him toward the door.  "Aramis has the curiosity of a cat, he's been dying to know the contents of that letter.  You will likely find both he and Porthos back in the courtyard waiting for you.  Let me give my report to the captain and I will join you shortly."  He thrust the still gaping youth out the door with an equally discreet squeeze of the shoulder, and closed it firmly behind him, though he waited 'til he heard the booted footsteps trail away before crossing the room again. 

"Anything else you want to know?" he inquired, settling his hat back on his head and adjusting the brim as he set a hip against the front corner of Treville's desk. 

"I believe your messages told me everything I needed to know.  So what do you want?"  Tréville pulled out the chair and sat himself down.  "Do you know," he remarked, eyeing his second-in-command curiously, "I don't believe I've ever seen you unsure of yourself.  From the day you walked in here and announced you wanted to purchase a commission yourself ..." he trailed off, understanding dawning.  "No," he said.

"It would cut off so many dangling threads."

"No," Tréville repeated.  "If d'Artagnan is half as capable as you've made him out to be, he'll earn it himself in short order.  I will not let you purchase a commission for him."

Athos scowled.  "It would guarantee we could keep him out of the cardinal's clutches."

"We will manage that without a commission."

"I promised him he would not end up in the Bastille."

"He won't.  I took your first letter, with the details and the woman's description to the cardinal.  Told him I could produce an eye witness to attest to everything in the letter.  He frothed at the mouth a bit, but backed down."

"Did you tell him the man he was seeking _was_ the witness?"

Tréville just looked at the _comte_.

"Apologies, of course you did not." Athos bowed slightly, though the action made him grimace as the broken ribs poked uncomfortably. 

"I suspect this woman is in the cardinal's employ, though I do not think he sanctioned the murder of the ambassador." 

"What makes you think that?"

"His Eminence's coyness."

"I see."  Athos experienced those creepy crawly fingers practicing arpeggios up and down his spine again.  He could easily imagine his late wife in collusion with the cardinal. 

"Any other dangling threads I can alleviate for you?" Tréville inquired, lips twitching again.

"Just one.  We should send funds at the very least, to the Dunkirk inn.  Perhaps return to help raise the roof on the barn."

"And you have a time frame in mind for this?'

Athos picked up a letter opener shaped like a rapier, a fine piece of work.  "Sooner rather than later.  We would need to take some leave - all of us."

"How long?"

"A fortnight."  They would have to ride hard to get to Dunkirk, raise a roof, and still be able to make it to Gascony and back, but Athos had not pulled the time frame out of thin air.  "Give or take a day or two."

"You'll let me know when so I don't put any of you on the schedule?"

"Yes, sir."  Athos neither put down the letter opener, nor removed himself from the desk. 

"More dangling threads?"

"No sir, at least none that come immediately to mind.  Though I wish we could house d'Artagnan at the garrison where we could keep an eye on him.  If this female assassin thinks he could identify her, she may be prowling around still.  And if she does indeed work for the cardinal, d'Artagnan could well be a marked man."

"He does not have a place to stay?"

"Aramis mentioned they collected him from the cloth merchant, Bonacieux.  However I believe he ended up there only because he passed out at Madame Bonacieux's feet after fleeing the scene of the crime.  She, being too kind-hearted to leave him lying in the marketplace, had him taken to their residence." 

"If he needs somewhere to stay we will find some place to lodge him here until we can find a way to show off his skills before the king." 

"I think he would be more comfortable here than staying with me."

"Meaning _you_ would be more comfortable with him staying here than with you."  Tréville allowed the smile free rein.  "Yes, I saw the hero worship.  He'll get over it when he gets to know you better."

Athos buffed his fingernails on his jacket, eyes cast in shadow by that hat brim though the visible features were perfectly straight as he replied with what sounded like complete sincerity,  "I don't know, sir.  Best swordsman in France, perhaps all of the Continent.  It might take awhile."

Tréville's unrestrained laughter followed Athos out the door. 

"What was that all about?" Aramis asked, all four faces turning synchronously as Athos joined them at the courtyard table where Serge had set out cheese and rolls and ale to tide them over until dinner was served.   

"Nothing," Athos said, sliding onto the bench beside d'Artagnan.  "Just revisiting ancient history.  If you need a place to stay, d'Artagnan, the captain says he'll have one of the barn stalls cleaned out for you." He turned his head, affecting a pleasant smile. " Grandier, how are your accommodations?"

"Far more pleasant than Captain Tréville made them out to be."  He turned to d'Artagnan with a slight frown.  "You would accept accommodations in the stable?"

d'Artagnan had scrubbed his face, pulled himself together and taken himself downstairs as ordered, though he had told the waiting contingent nothing.  He needed a bit more time to absorb this message from beyond the grave, to savor the thought, in private, that his father had believed in his skills enough to apply to the Captain of the Musketeers on his behalf and kept it from him to save him disappointment. He needed time to fully embrace the fact that he could freely pursue his dreams, and with his father's blessing. 

Just a very few days ago, envy had been his most stalwart companion.  This afternoon, he sat in the midst of the cause of his envy, a part of the group in a way he could not have imagined a week ago.  It was a lot to assimilate.

He shook his head slightly, when Athos, glancing around the table started to speak and replied to the priest himself.  "Athos is well aware I have a place to stay."

The barb bounced off the impervious musketeer.  "I would like you to stay here until we can resolve some things."  The hat did not lift, though Athos removed his gauntlets, tossing them aside as he reached to carve off a chuck of cheese with his parrying dagger.  If d'Artagnan had said nothing of the letter to the others, then it was not his place to open the discussion. 

"Hope you cleaned that," Aramis muttered from across the table.

The hat tilted, though no response was forthcoming. 

d'Artagnan took the piece of cheese handed over to him and accepted a roll from Porthos sitting next to Aramis.  "When I have earned the right to be here, even accommodations in the stable would suit me perfectly."

"Father," Athos said, changing the subject before Aramis could jump in, "about that invitation to the _Hôtel de Rambouillet,_ perhaps you ought to ask your friends to include your guardian angels in that invitation."  He would talk to d'Artagnan later about housing arrangements as well.

As a diversion, the ploy worked beautifully.  The table instantly erupted in a heated debate over the merits of attendance at Madame's salon. 

d'Artagnan glanced at Athos, gratitude in his eyes, though he gave no other outward sign.

The hat canted in acknowledgement. 

Abruptly, d'Artagnan shoved up from the table, stepping back over the bench from his place between Athos and Grandier.  The priest rose as well, as did Athos.

"You wish to return to your lodgings I am sure," Grandier said, clapping d'Artagnan very lightly on the shoulder.  "It is my hope I will see you again before I return home.  If I do not have that pleasure, may God grant you a long and amazing life.  I will be speaking to our Lord regarding that pauldron as well."

d'Artagnan grinned.  "My thanks, Father, I would very much appreciate that.  And yes, much as I hate to admit it, I am ready to go to bed again.  Never thought I'd be saying those words ever in my life!"

"Ahhhh, enjoy your youth, it is not yet eternal as we take for granted when we are young!" 

With an obeisance lacking only in depth due to discomfort, d'Artagnan made to take his leave. 

"We will see you in the morning."  Porthos grinned up at the youth.  "7:00 o'clock sharp.  Don't be late."

"Shall I send over the liniment?" Aramis asked, glancing askance at Athos, employing their shorthand voiceless communication - _are we just letting him go off by himself?_ \- with the look.

Athos shrugged, practically imperceptibly.  "Bonacieux's is on my way home, I'll walk with you."

Aramis tipped his head in a slight nod. 

"No need," d'Artagnan replied to Aramis' question, "but thank you.  And I will see you both in the morning.  Father Grandier," he bowed again and tipped his head with a small smile to Aramis and Porthos.  "Until tomorrow, gentleman."

They left together, Athos and d'Artagnan, the silence between them companionable and easy. 

Athos, who had lived in his own contemplative silence for much of his life, did not press for speech.  He understood the need for a period of adjustment.  As Aramis had noted only a few days ago, though it seemed like a lifetime already, d'Artagnan's whole existence had been turned upside down and without the slightest warning. 

"I will be fine at the Bonacieux residence.  I know what that woman is now and will not be so lax in my guard should I see her again."

Athos, a little surprised the youth had either guessed or anticipated his thoughts, said only, "Good." 

"You're not going to lecture me about still being in danger?"

"It appears to be unnecessary."

"But that's why you wanted me to stay at the garrison."

"Yes."

"If she's looking for me, Athos, it won't matter where I am.  She killed a man in the middle of an inn full of people."

"Not likely brazen enough to risk an entire garrison of musketeers to slit your throat."

"I will sleep with one eye open."

Athos kept his sigh to himself.  "You could stay with me, I suppose, until this situation is resolved."

"I appreciate the offer, but I'm not a puppy and I don't need looking after.  I know I haven't quite made that apparent yet, but I am capable of taking care of and defending myself."

"I know you are more than competent, d'Artagnan,  your weakness lies in not understanding your own vulnerability.  You cannot watch every second story window, or your own back constantly.  Do you know why we're known as the Inseparables?"

d'Artagnan stopped under the shade of a tree in the Bonacieux yard.  "I suppose I assumed it was because you are constantly together."  Inland Paris was much warmer than costal Calais.  The sun shone down with merry disregard for aching heads and still not-quite-healed bodies. 

"That is a small part of it, yes, though the appellation devolved to us because if you try to kill one, you take on three.  Don't give us cause to regret making it four."

"Don't do anything stupid."

"An excellent translation." The hat dipped in a silent language d'Artagnan was coming to understand.  "While you are not yet obligated to obey any command of mine, I would appreciate it if you would wait here for me in the morning." 

d'Artagnan considered.  "All right.  I can do that."

"Then--" the hat was swept off and a courtesy obeisance offered with just a slight touch of amused impudence, "I will see you in the morning."

d'Artagnan stood beneath the shade of the tree long after the musketeer's tall, striding form disappeared around the corner.  In fact, he stood so long, Madame Bonacieux, spying him from her window, came down to investigate.

"Are you unwell yet, monsieur?" she asked softly, since he seemed completely unaware of her presence, though she had taken no measures to conceal  her approach.  She had not even come up behind him.

d'Artagnan startled - and laughed ruefully.  "My apologies, Madame, I was woolgathering.  No," he said, in response to her question, "I am well thank you.  But I do need to ask if you and Monsieur Bonacieux would be willing to take on a boarder for a more extended period of time."

"I am sure we can accommodate you for a while at least.  You will stay in Paris then, Monsieur d'Artagnan?"

"Yes."  d'Artagnan's grin lit his whole face, making Madame's heart flutter just a little. "Yes, my father bespoke a place among the Musketeers before his death.  I will have to earn it, but it is my very great hope to soon be serving at the pleasure of the king."

Madame Bonacieux returned the grin shyly.  "This is what you really wanted then?"

"My whole life, Madame, my whole life."  d'Artagnan offered his arm and escorted his new landlady into the house. 

Across the square, a lone figure stood in the deep shadow of a recessed pillar, the hood of her dark burgundy dress shadowing her face as well. 

_Soon_ , she thought complacently, _very very soon_.  Revenge was a dish best served cold. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N: Urbain Grandier, in case you're interested, was plucked from the historical archives to be the basis of a semi-OC. He was born in 1590 and died in 1634 - a violent death at the behest of Cardinal Richelieu. Grandier publicly called Richelieu to account one too many times, causing His Eminence to accuse Grandier of witchcraft, and when the priest would not confess, had him 'put to the question', as they sanitized the word torture in the 1600s. I have bent his history a little to bring him to Paris, as there is no record of his ever being brought before the king. In August of 1634, he was tried and found guilty in his home parish of Loudun and subsequently burned at the stake._
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> _Catherine de Vivonne, Marquise de Rambouillet is also a true-life character. Her Paris salons were frequented by many of the intellectuals of the day, including Corneille and Molière and the radical priest, Bossuet. I thought Grandier would fit right in with that crowd._
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>   _My thanks to every reader whose wandered through these pages, this was a long story and I very much appreciate each one of you who invested time in something of mine. To all the great folks who've taken the extra moment to leave a comment(s) or kudos - I am beyond grateful. While I would write in the sand if stranded on a desert island if there was nothing else available - because I am compelled to write and have discovered only recently that writing is my spiritual junction box - sharing is such a sweet, sweet joy! My real life companions would tell you I have been really fun to be around this week as this story has posted and I've had the opportunity to share the joy of reading and writing with all of you. While writing is my true life-blood, feedback certainly makes that blood circulate faster and intensifies every bit of joy each new comment offers. Thank you thank you thank you for each and every gift you've given me this week!_
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>   _Disclaimer: The characters and some of the settings in this story are the property of Alexandre Dumas' ancestors, and BBC America, its successors and assigns. The story itself is the intellectual property of the author. No copyright infringement has been perpetrated for financial gain._

**Author's Note:**

> TBC


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